THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


' 


THE 


BAY-PATH  ; 


of   Uto  <folau&  Colonial  fife. 


BY 


J.   G.   HOLLAND, 

ATJTHOK  OF  "LETTERS  TO  THE   YOUNG,"   "LESSONS  IN   LIFE,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER,   124  GRAND  STREET. 

1862. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857, 
BY  G.  P.  PUTNAM    &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


TO 


SAMUEL     B  OW  L  E  S, 


Jrienb  anb  Associate. 


9165 


PUBLISHER'S  PREFACE. 


A  SMALL  edition  of  this  work,  published  in  1857,  having  been  for  some 
time  entirely  out  of  print,  a  constant  and  increasing  demand  for  it  has  led 
to  its  republication. 

The  very  great  popularity  of  the  author's  subsequent  works,  which 
have,  in  the  aggregate,  nearly  reached  the  sale  of  one  hundred  thousand 
volumes,  would,  of  itself  give  unusual  interest  to  this  volume;  but  it  is 
with  special  reliance  on  its  own  merits  that  it  is  again  offered  to  the 
public. 
April,  1862. 


PREFACE, 


FICTION,  though  much  abused  by  those  who  write  it,  and  persistently 
traduced  by  those  who  do  not  comprehend  its  true  mission,  has  always 
been  a  favorite  mode  of  communicating  truth,  and  has,  for  its  support, 
the  highest  sanctions  of  Christianity.  The  Author  of  the  Christian  system 
spake  evermore  in  parables  in  the  illustration  of  important  practical  truth. 
In  fact  (let  it  be  reverently  uttered),  the  great  principle  in  human  nature 
which  called  Him  into  the  world,  is  identical  with  that  on  which  the 
claims  and  power  of  legitimate  fiction  rest.  He  came  to  embody  abstract 
truth  in  human  relations,  and  the  naked,  incomprehensible  idea  of  God, 
in  the  human  form.  He  came  to  exhibit  in  human  development  the  true 
nature  of  the  divine  life,  and  to  demonstrate,  in  human  experience,  under 
the  influence  of  legitimate  human  motives,  the  beauty  of  holiness.  It 
was  upon  this  principle  that  his  wonderful  parables  were  based.  The 
necessity  was  to  exhibit  truth  in  its  relations  to  the  feeling,  thinking,  act 
ing  soul;  and,  in  order  to  meet  that  necessity  at  that  day,  it  was  requisite 
that  the  case  should  be  imagined  and  the  relations  created.  In  the  birth 
of  new  questions,  hi  the  revolution  of  opinions,  and  in  the  shifting  aspect 
of  affairs,  this  great  necessity  becomes  perpetual,  and  the  requisites  for  its 
satisfaction  remain  the  same. 

"With  this  view  of  the  legitimate  aim  and  high  office  of  fiction,  the  fol 
lowing  pages  were  written.     They  were  written  for  New  England  people 


PREFACE. 

at  home  and  abroad,  and  with  the  conviction  that  the  basis  of  New 
England  character  is  essentially  religious.  They  were  written,  also,  with 
the  belief  that  the  early  colonial  life  of  New  England,  though  cramped  in 
its  creeds,  rigid  in  its  governmental  policy,  formal  in  its  society,  and 
homely  kt  its  details,  was  neither  without  its  romantic  aspects  nor  its 
heroes,  in  high  and  humble  position,  with  whose  full  hearts,  independent 
wills,  and  manly  struggles,  the  largest  spirit  of  this  age  may  fully  sympa 
thize.  The  colonial  age  of  New  England  was  its  true  age  of  romance. 
It  was  in  that  age  that  its  institutions  were  born,  its  habits  established, 
and  its  principles  planted ;  and  it  is  to  that  age  that  we  must  look  for 
those  exaggerated  forms  of  social,  religious,  and  political  life,  whose 
remote  or  direct  relations  with  the  present  illuminate  them  with  an 
interest  which  everywhere  and  in  all  ages  informs  the  childhood  of  a 
nation. 

For  whatever  of  plot  there  may  be  hi  the  following  tale,  history  must, 
hi  a  general  way,  be  held  responsible.  The  names,  localities,  characters, 
and  leading  incidents  are  historical.  The  tale  is,  hi  reality,  a  section  or 
segment  of  history,  withdrawn  from  its  location  and  relations,  and  en 
dowed  with  a  life  and  spirit  which  aim  to  be  consistent  and  harmonious 
with  the  body  of  facts  with  which  they  are  brought  into  association. 
Had  the  writer  felt  at  liberty  to  develop  his  plot  entirely  at  his  will,  or, 
rather,  had  he  not  felt  that  history  was  a  more  reliable  guide  to  the  ends 
sought  to  be  attained  than  imagination,  some  portions  of  the  work,  which 
may  not  be  deemed  artistic,  would  have  been  differently  constructed. 

In  the  title  of  the  book,  the  reader  is  at  liberty  to  see  more  than  the 
simple  designation  of  the  channel  of  travel  and  transportation  between 
the  colonial  centre  and  the  distant  settlement;  for,  along  its  pages,  the 
writer  has  endeavored  to  trace,  through  dim  forests  of  superstition,  by 
the  side  of  life-giving  streams  of  thought,  over  barren  hills  of  bigotry, 


PKEFACE. 

among  rocks  of  passion,  and  across  mountain-tops  of  high  resolution 
and  noble  action,  the  path  over  which  those  influences  passed  which 
shaped  the  policy  of  the  governing  power  and  moulded  the  destiny  of 
the  governed. 

It  is  not  necessary,  perhaps,  to  say  that,  in  the  execution  of  this 
work,  the  writer  is  conscious  of  having  fallen  not  only  below  his  own 
ideal,  but  below  the  high  claims  of  his  subject ;  yet  the  extremely  kind 
and  cordial  treatment  which  the  public  have  already  extended  to  it,  in 
another  and  less  permanent  form,  emboldens  him  to  hope  for  many 
readers,  and  for  their  considerate  indulgence. 


REPUBLICAN  OFFICE,  SPRINGFIXID, 
January,  1857. 


THE     BAY-PATH. 


CHAPTER    I. 

IT  snowed  incessantly.  Far  up  in  the  fathomless  grey  the 
shooting  flakes  mingled  in  dim  confusion,  or  crossed  each 
other's  lines  in  momentary  angles,  or  came  calmly  down  for 
a  brief  space,  and  then  fled  traceless  into  the  tempest ;  and 
all,  as  they  met  the  breath  of  the  blast,  became  its  burden, 
and  were  swept  in  blinding  and  spiteful  clouds  to  the  earth. 
All  around,  the  storm  was  vocal.  The  pines  hissed  like 
serpents,  and  the  old  oak,  catching  the  wild  roar  of  his 
children  in  the  far  north-east,  as  it  came  on  and  on,  over 
writhing  and  bowing  forests,  took  up  the  same  strong 
strain,  and,  struggling  like  a  giant,  sent  it  off  triumphantly 
to  the  south-western  hills. 

But  the  storm  was  skilful  as  well  as  strong.  It  wove  a 
wreath  in  the  hair  of  the  splintered  stump ;  it  chiselled  fair 
capitals  upon  rude  gate-posts ;  it  crowned  stone  chimneys 
with  layers  of  marble  ;  it  veneered  rough  house  walls  with 
ivory ;  it  made  soft  pillows  and  spotless  shrouds  for  dead 
old  trees ;  it  wrought  fair  cornices  for  rough  cabins ;  it 
clothed  with  ermine  unsheltered  beasts,  and  sought  fantastic 
shapes  around  every  corner  and  in  every  nook  where  there 
was  sufficient  quiet  for  the  quest. 

It  had  snowed  thus  all  day,  and  the  wind  had  roared 
thus,  and  the  new-born  shapes  had  piled,  and  shifted,  and 


8  THE     BAY     PATH. 

changed  thus ;  and  the  storm  had  its  witnesses.  From  the 
windows  of  a  row  of  humble  cabins,  scattered  at  wide  dis 
tances  from  each  other,  impatient  eyes  looked  out,  from 
time  to  time,  and,  occasionally,  a  muffled  form  issued  forth 
to  the  unprotected  wood-pile,  to  gather  materials  for  keep 
ing  the  storm  out  of  doors. 

From  the  glazed  window  of  the  only  framed  house  in  the 
settlement,  peered  out  a  wonderful  pair  of  eyes.  They 
were  dark,  clear  and  bright,  and  mild  and  meaningless. 
Their  owner  was  a  deer,  a  pet  of  the  house,  who  stood 
through  long  passages  of  the  storm,  and  watched  the  falling 
snow  and  the  driving  clouds  of  sleet,  and  winked  as  the 
arrowy  needles  struck  the  window  pane.  Then,  turning 
his  head  without  stirring  a  foot,  he  gazed  intently  upon 
the  inmates  of  the  room,  seated  round  the  roaring  fire. 
Or,  his  hoofs  tapping  sharply  upon  the  floor,  he  retreated 
from  the  window,  and  looked  closely  and  calmly  into  the 
faces  of  those  who  loved  him  best,  or  rubbed  his  sprouting 
antlers  upon  kind  shoulders,  or  begged  for  bread  at  the 
hand — the  fairest  hand  in  the  settlement — of  her  who  fed 
huii. 

The  other  occupants  of  this  room  were  a  man  who  had 
reached  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  who,  undisturbed  by 
the  storm  without,  was  busily  engaged  in  examining  papers, 
and  in  writing ;  a  prim,  silent  lady  of  the  same  age,  who 
sat  quietly  in  the  corner,  mending  some  rough  article  of 
male  apparel ;  and  a  maid  of  twenty  years,  who  was  em 
ployed  in  teaching  a  boy  of  twelve. 

It  was  a  singular  group.  The  old  man,  with  his  large, 
pleasant  eye,  looked  up  amid  the  oauses  of  his  labor,  and 
regarded  his  children  with  affectionate  interest ;  the  grave 
dame  pursued  her  labor  in  reverence  and  silence;  while 
the  dumb  companion,  walking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
group,  or  passing  between  the  window  and  the  fire,  and  at 
tracting  the  eyes  of  the  maiden  and  the  boy,  formed  a  pic- 


THE     BAY     PATH. 

ture  of  wild  and  civilized  life,  beautifully  representative  of 
the  mixed  materials  and  strange  combinations  and  compa 
nionships  of  a  new  settlement. 

The  scene  thus  opened  is  in  the  Agawam  of  1638.  The 
family  thus  introduced  is  that  of  William  Pynchon,  the 
founder  of  the  settlement,  and  one  of  the  principal  men  of 
the  colony  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay.  He  emigrated  from 
England  in  1630,  was  one  of  the  patentees  of  the  colony 
named  in  the  charter  of  1628,  and  originally  settled  at 
Roxbury,  of  which  town  he  was  the  principal  founder. 
Soon  after  landing  in  New  England,  he  lost  his  wife,  a  wo 
man  dearly  loved  and  much  lamented, — the  mother  of 
children  who  needed  her  guidance,  comfort,  and  counsel. 
A  few  years  passed  away,  amidst  the  scenes  of  the  new 
settlement,  and  the  pressure  of  new  and  heavy  public  re 
sponsibilities,  when  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  a  memory  still  true 
to  the  mother  of  his  children,  married  Mrs.  Frances  Samford, 
"  a  grave  matron  of  the  church  of  Dorchester,"  to  whom 
he  had  been  attracted  by  an  event  in  his  family  with  which 
she  was  intimately  associated.  Henry  Smith  was  her  son 
by  a  former  husband,  and  he  had  married  Ann,  the  oldest 
daughter  of  Mr.  Pynchon.  Thus  connected,  they  had  all 
removed,  in  1636,  to  Agawam  (the  Springfield  of  the 
present);  and  two  years,  with  their  hardships  and  changes, 
had  passed  over  the  family  at  the  date  of  their  introduction 
to  the  reader. 

Incessantly  fell  the  snow,  until,  as  the  shoit  day  drew  to 
a  close,  the  wind  lulled,  the  sun  shone  through  a  golden  rift 
in  the  west,  and  the  storm  had  passed.  And,  everywhere, 
deep,  and  white,  and  soft,  lay  the  snow.  Once  more  the 
village  was  astir.  The  axe  that  had  hung  idle  all  day  swung 
lustily  at  each  cabin  door;  boys  whose  confinement  had 
been  torture  burst  forth  into  the  air  with  a  Avild  whoop  and 
halloo ;  and  before  the  sun  had  set,  the  few  cattle  and  horses 
of  the  settlement  were  yoked  to  a  sled  which  held  a  full 

1* 


10  THEBAYPATH. 

freight  of  joyous  boyhood,  and  with  shouts  the  motley  pro 
cession  passed  through  the  street.  Paths  were  shovelled 
from  each  door  to  this,  thus  made,  and  the  arteries  for  the 
circulation  of  the  social  life-blood  were  again  established. 

Through  all  the  shouting,  and  all  the  boisterous  demon 
strations  of  freedom  that  reached  his  ear  from  without,  the 
boy  John  Pynchon  sat  unmoved,  or  only  lifted  his  head 
from  his  book  with  a  smile,  as  the  chattering  throng  passed 
by. 

"  John,"  said  his  father,  "  why  do  you  not  go  out,  and 
enjoy  yourself  with  the  rest  of  the  boys?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to,  sir,"  was  the  dignified  and 
respectful  reply. 

"  But  why  do  you  not  wish  to  ?"  inquired  the  father. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir, — I  can't  tell  you  exactly,"  hesitated 
John. 

"  I  think,  with  all  respect  to  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pynchon, 
bowing  to  her  husband,  "  that  John  is  afraid  of  tearing  his 
clothes,  which  is  very  good  and  very  proper  in  him,  I'm 
sure." 

Mr.  Pynchon  looked  at  John  with  a  quiet  smile,  and  John 
looked  at  Mary,  his  sister  and  teacher,  and  the  two  latter 
laughed  good-naturedly  and  heartily  at  the  profound  solu 
tion.  The  old  lady  bent  on  them  a  not  unkind  look  of  in 
quiry,  and  subsided  to  the  patch  apd  the  needle. 

The  question  remained  unanswered,  save  in  the  mind  of 
him  who  proposed  it.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  tracing,  in 
the  memory  of  his  own  youth,  the  reason  of  the  change 
which  had  passed  over  his  son.  In  high  natures  the  transi 
tion  from  boyhood  to  manhood  is  instantaneous,  even  if  not 
recognised  in  the  consciousness.  Under  some  deep  impres 
sion,  or  by  some  strange  inspiration,  the  young  spirit  catches 
a  glimpse  of  its  own  depth  and  destiny,  and,  immediately, 
the  sports  and  toys  of  boyhood  have  lost  their  power  tc 
charm.  Or,  perhaps,  the  eye  comprehends  the  grace  of 


THE     BAY     PATH.  11 

some  fair  form,  and  the  heart,  older  than  the  head,  traces 
the  outlines  of  a  relation  more  beautiful  and  blissful  than  all 
other  relations,  and  throws  a  flood  of  light  upon  a  future, 
by  the  side  of  which  all  the  present,  and  all  the  past,  become 
tame  and  tasteless. 

John  Pynchon  had  grown  up  by  the  side,  and  under  the 
influence  of  one  who  was  to  him  mother  and  instructor,  as 
well  as  sister.  Mary  Pynchon !  The  light  of  a  father's 
heart,  the  light  of  a  wilderness  home,  the  light  of  every  eye 
that  beheld  her — beautiful,  lovely,  noble  Mary  Pynchon ! 
She  had  lived  with  this  young  brother,  and  had  become  a 
portion  of  his  e^erience.  They  had  walked  through  the 
dim  old  woods  together,  and  she  had  told  him  of  England, 
and  of  his  mother,  and  the  long  voyage  across  the  ocean, 
which  he  remembered  as  a  dream ;  and  she  had  patiently 
assisted  him  in  the  acquisition  of  the  elements  of  education, 
and  had  been  his  comforter  and  companion,  in  sickness  and 
health,  in  joy  and  sorrow,  while  his  father  was  absorbed  in 
the  affairs  of  the  plantation  or  his  constant  studies,  and 
while  Mrs.  Pynchon  busied  herself  in  the  congenial  pursuits 
of  a  thrifty  housewife.  It  was  not  strange  that  with  such 
culture  the  boy  ripened  early,  and  preferred  the  society  of 
his  sister  to  that  of  the  noisy  rabble  whose  shouts  had  filled 
the  air. 

The  room  in  which  this  family  were  sitting  was  not  de 
void  of  articles  that  gave  even  to  its  rough  walls  an  air  of 
elegance.  Gov.  Winthrop's  "  blessing  of  the  Bay  "  had 
brought  from  Roxbury  many  articles  of  furniture,  in  keeping 
with  the  wealth  and  position  of  their  owner.  An  elegantly 
mounted  hunting-piece  stood  in  one  corner,  while  a  pair  of 
well  wrought  snow-shoes  hung  by  its  side.  A  tall  case  of 
draAvers  and  a  small  oak  secretaire  occupied  opposite  ends 
of  the  apartment ;  while  a  bed,  shielded  by  curtains,  was 
lifted  against  the  wall  that  opposed  the  huge  fire-place. 

The  shadows  of  evening  fell  around  the  house,  as  the  fa- 


12  THE     BAY     PATH. 

mily  partook  of  their  homely  supper,  and  the  meal  had  but 
just  been  cleared  away,  and  the  candle-wood  set  blazing 
upon  the  hearth,  when  a  strong  rap  resounded  at  the  door. 
John  answered  the  summons  and  admitted  a  large,  muffled 
figure — a  man  who  stamped  his  boots  furiously,  but  who 
said  not  a  wrord  until  he  had  fairly  reached  the  middle  of  the 
room,  when,  as  Mr.  Pynchon  entered  from  the  other  side, 
he  effected  a  most  obsequious  bow,  with  a  burly  head  of 
bristling  hair.  The  eyes  of  the  new  comer  were  small 
organs  that  had  an  uncertain,  vacillating  way  of  looking  at 
everything,  and  his  voice,  as  he  saluted  the  master  of  the 
house,  was  mild  and  nervously — querulo^py — musical,  al 
though  the  growl  of  a  bear  would  have  been  more  in  con 
sonance  with  his  size  and  appearance. 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Moxon,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  courteously,  "  I 
am  glad  to  see  you.  "We  have  both  had  a  day  pretty 
much  at  our  own  disposal,  I  imagine,  and  we  can  afford  to 
spend  the  evening  together.  I  hope  you  are  very  well  to 
night." 

"  I  am  well,  sir — well  in  body — better,  perhaps,  than  is 
well  for  me.  Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  (bowing  to  Mrs. 
Pynchon,  of  whose  presence  he  had  thus  far  been  oblivious). 
Yes,  sir — better  than  is  well  for  me.  I  feel  as  if  greater 
trials  were  necessary  to  me — necessary  to  my  peace.  This 
poor  weak  heart  of  mine  needs  to  be  driven  to  its  faith — 
Ah !  Mary !  John !  (an  accidental  recognition  of  two 
faces  hitherto  unobserved) — driven  to  it,  or  else  I  relapse  into 
doubt,  and  especially  here,  where  I  am.  so  much  alone." 

During  this  brief  and  disconnected  address,  Mrs.  Pynchon 
had  dropped  her  work,  and  sat  drinking  in  the  words  without 
a  very  perfect  comprehension  of  their  import.  It  was  enough 
to  know  that  the  speaker  was  her  minister,  and  his  subject 
religion,  and  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  dropping  pearls  ; 
and  so,  while  he  removed  his  muffler  and  cloak,  she  said, "  how 
true !"— an  unguarded  expression,  as  she  had  not  heard  her 


THE     BAY     PATH.  13 

husband's  opinion,  which  she  gracefully  sought  to  cover  by 
brushing  up  the  hearth  with  a  turkey's  wing. 

Mr.  Pynchon  sat  down,  and  gazed  for  some  moments  into 
the  fire,  and  then,  in  his  calm  way,  said — "  Mr.  Moxon, 
unbelief  never  troubles  me  here.  It  never  troubles  me 
when  I  am  alone.  Here,  in  these  solitudes,  I  live  with  Gad. 
I  know,  and  constantly  realize  that  He  is  above  me,  and 
around  me.  It  is  only  in  crowds  that  I  tremble.  When  I 
see  a  throng — an  innumerable  multitude — suggestive,  as  it  is, 
of  the  number  of  a  nation,  and  that,  in  turn,  of  the  number 
of  a  generation,  and  that,  again,  of  all  the  generations  that 
have  come  and  gflfce  in  the  world's  history,  I  stagger  at  the 
thought  of  their  immortality,  and  do"ubt  whether  there  is 
room  for  them,  even  in  their  destiny." 

"  Mr.  Pynchon,  you  and  I  have  been  frank  with  each 
other,"  replied  the  minister,  shifting  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  suspiciously  around  the  room,  "  and  I  confess 
to  you  that  my  great  want  is  faith — faith.  Sometimes  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  it — as  if  1  had  grasped  it — as  if  (and  he  looked 
up  excitedly) — as  if  my  arm  were  thrown  around  a  pillar  of 
God's  throne, — and  then  it  goes  from  me — vanishes — and 
leaves  me  weak  and  miserable.  Sir,  where  you  are  the 
strongest,  I  am  the  weakest.  Here,  alone,  with  nothing  but 
the  wilderness  and  wild  men  around  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
astray  in  God's  universe  ;  as  if  I  were  lost  to  His  care,  and 
forgotten  in  His  knowledge.  I  want  more  support,  more 
companionship  of  belief,  so  that  my  faith  shall  be  able  to 
fall  in  no  direction  without  striking  a  firmer  faith  that  shall 
throw  it  back  to  its  position.  I  am  comforted  here  to-night, 
with  you,  and  strengthened  by  being  near  you,  and  yet" — 
(and  he  abruptly  and  hurriedly  arose,  and  crossed  the  room) — 
"  I  am  the  spiritual  teacher  of  this  settlement !"  The  last 
sentence  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  deep  self-abasement  and 
condemnation. 

This  exhibition  had  no  novelty  with  Mr.  Pynchon,  but 


14  THE     BAY     PATH. 

it  was  new  in  a  great  measure  to  the  family,  who  sat  in 
silence  and  deep  interest  during  its  continuance.  Mrs. 
Pynchon  was  bewildered,  while  Mary  listened,  both  to 
her  father  and  to  Mr.  Moxon,  with  the  most  intense  in 
terest.  Her  bright  countenance  caught  the  eye  of  her 
father,  and,  turning  kindly  to  her,  he  said,  "  Come,  my  good 
child,  my  Christian  philosopher,  tell  your  minister  and  your 
father  what  the  trouble  is  with  them." 

Mary's  cheek  became  suffused  with  a  modest  blush,  and 
her  blue  eye  bright  with  the  truth  and  intelligence  within 
it,  as  she  replied  : 

"  Father,  I  cannot  explain  the  difference  between  you 
and  Mr.  Moxon,  or,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  the  difference  in 
your  views  and  feelings  under  the  same  circumstances,  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  great  differences  in  religious  expe 
rience  grow  out  of  the  fact  that  there  is  a  great  difference 
between  our  being  in  religion,  and  religion  being  within  us. 
There  are  many,  too  many,  it  seems  to  me,  who  are  simply 
in  religion.  They  move  in  a  religious  atmosphere,  and 
handle  religious  things,  and  eat  religious  food,  for  their 
daily  necessities  or  occasional  emergencies,  and  are  thus  at 
the  mercy  of  their  temperaments  and  the  sport  of  circum 
stances.  There  are  others  whose  spirits  religion  occupies 
and  possesses,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  with  such  God  is 
present,  both  in  the  crowd  and  in  the  wilderness,  and  that 
they  have  no  need  to  seek  for  faith  anywhere,  for  faith  pos 
sesses  them  everywhere." 

"Well  done!  my  daughter.  We  are  both  reproved," 
replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  placing  his  hand  upon  her  earnestly 
up-turned  forehead ;  but  Mr.  Moxon,  who  had  stood  listen 
ing  to  her  without  looking  at  her,  remained  silent,  and  in 
motionless  reflection.  A  new  light  seemed  to  open  upon 
him,  and  severe  self-questionings  were  in  almost  unconscious 
progress  within  his  troubled  and  uncertain  nature.  Was 
that  the  solution  of  his  struggle  ?  Was  he  in  religion  or 


THE     BAY     PATH.  15 

religion  in  him  ?  The  voice  of  an  angel  could  not  have 
aroused  him  more  powerfully  than  the  maiden's  simple  but 
positive  revelations.  The  assurance  of  a  firmly  poised 
reason,  and  the  confidence  of  a  steadfast  heart,  were  rocks 
against  which  his  bark  could  not  dash  without  instantaneous 
wreck.  Its  timbers  were  too  loosely  joined — too  poorly 
fitted.  This  child  of  his  flock,  this  girl,  with  her  fine  in 
stincts  and  her  well  instructed  heart,  had  thrown  his  soul 
into  entire  confusion,  and  he  certainly  seemed  likely  to  have 
all  the  trials  which  he  felt  that  bis  happiness  and  security 
demanded. 

Mary  became  instantly  conscious  of  the  effect  she  had 
produced  on  her  minister's  mind,  and  would  have  erased  it, 
if  possible;  for  she  believed  that  his  eccentricities  were 
more  attributable  to  a  defective  mental  and  physical  organ 
ization  than  to  a  lack  of  genuine  religious  experience ;  but, 
just  as  she  had  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  Mr.  Moxon  started, 
turned  his  head  suddenly,  and,  snuffing  the  air  nervously, 
exclaimed,  "  musk !" 

"  Ah  !  Commuk !  Commuk  !"  shouted  John,  breaking  a 
silence  he  had  maintained  since  the  advent  of  the  minister, 
and  leaping,  at  one  bound,  half  way  to  the  uncurtained 
window. 

All  turned  their  eyes  in  that  direction,  and  there,  staring 
steadily  in  upon  the  group,  the  fitful  light  of  the  burning 
candle-wood  flashing  full  in  his  tawny  face,  stood  a  tall 
Indian,  holding  up  to  view  a  package  of  beaver  skins,  whose 
proximity  Mr.  Moxon  had  so  readily  detected. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  in,  John,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon.  John 
was  at  the  door  in  a  moment,  and,  releasing  Commuk  from 
his  burden  of  peltry,  brought  it  in,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
hearth.  The  Indian,  with  whom  John  was  a  favoi'ite,  and 
who  was  no  less  a  favorite  of  the  boy,  followed  the  latter 
with  a  brace  of  partridges,  which  he  insisted  upon  putting 
into  no  hands  but  those  of  Mary,  who  received  them  with 


16  THE     BAY     PATH. 

a  smile  of  acknowledgment,  and  passed  them  into  an  ad 
joining  apartment. 

This  strange  interruption  broke  up  the  whole  current  of 
thought  and  conversation.  Mrs.  Pynchon,  to  whom  the 
singular  appearance  of  the  minister  had  become  extremely 
oppressive,  was  immediately  alive  to  the  new  order  of  things. 
She  had  seen  the  partridges,  and  given  expression  to  her 
gratification  in  an  exclamation  that  hung  upon  the  letter  m 
with  a  singing  tone,  as  if  her  imagination  were  already 
feasting  on  the  broiled  and  buttered  birds.  The  prospect 
of  the  trade  which  was  wrapped  up  in  that  valuable  package 
of  beaver  skins  had  also  tended  to  enliven  the  good  old 
lady.  It  looked  like  living.  It  looked  like  business. 

Commuk  had  said  nothing.  Nothing  but  grunts,  of 
greater  or  less  significance,  had  escaped  him,  in  response  to 
the  various  remarks  that  had  been  addressed  to  him.  Mrs. 
Pynchon  gave  up  to  him  her  corner,  and  John,  who  seemed 
to  anticipate  the  Indian's  wants  more  readily  than  the  rest, 
soon  deposited  a  pewter  plate  in  his  lap,  charged  with  boun 
tiful  slices  of  corn  bread  and  cold  venison. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Moxon  had  busied  himself  with  a  re 
adjustment  of  his  muffler,  had  replied  to  Mary's  kind  inqui 
ries  concerning  his  wife  and  children,  and  was  hurrying  on 
his  cloak,  apparently  holding  his  breath,  so  far  as  possible, 
when  the  family  gathered  respectfully  around  him  and 
responded  pleasantly  to  his  hurried  "  good  evening."  The 
beaver  skins  and  the  Indian  were  too  much  for  his  fastidi 
ous  sensibilities,  and  the  cold,  clear  air  outside  was  as  grate 
ful  to  him  as  balm.  Commuk  had  watched  him  through 
the  process  of  leave-taking  without  tasting  his  food,  but 
when  the  door  closed  he  gave  a  satisfied  grunt  and  settled 
back  to  silence  and  his  supper. 

While  the  new  comer  is  thus  engaged,  and  the  family 
carry  on  their  conversation  in  a  quiet  tone,  watching  John 
as  he  unties  and  holds  up,  one  by  one,  the  beaver  skins  that 


THE     BAY     PATH.  17 

are  to  be  transferred  in  sale  to  Mr.  Pynchon,  it  will  be  well 
to  give  a  brief  history  of  the  gentleman  who  has  just 
engaged  our  attention. 

The  Rev.  George  Moxon  received  Episcopal  ordination  in 
England,  and  sought  within  the  regular  forms  and  lofty 
sanctions  of  the  established  church  that  peace  of  mind  and 
stability  of  belief  for  which  he  had  longed  and  prayed  ;  but 
he  sought  in  vain.  He  then  studied  the  Puritans,  and  the 
vitality  of  their  sturdy  virtues  became  attractive  by  degrees, 
as  it  was  developed  in  fixedness  of  purpose,  determination 
of  will,  devotion  to  duty,  and  steadfastness  of  faith,  until  he 
lost  his  hold  of  the  mother's  hand,  and  passed  over  to  the 
non-conformists.  At  this  time  he  was  serving  as  chaplain 
to  Sir  William  Brereton,  and  preaching  in  St.  Helen's  Cha 
pel,  near  Warrington,  in  Lancashire,  from  which  place  he 
was  obliged  to  flee  in  disguise,  a  citation  for  his  appearance 
having  been  placed  upon  the  door  of  his  chapel.  He  em 
barked  at  Bristol,  crossed  the  Atlantic,  became  a  freeman 
at  Boston  in  1637,  and,  during  the  same  year,  commenced 
his  labors  as  the  first  minister  of  the  church  in  Agawam. 

In  Mr.  Pynchon  he  had  found  a  mind  self-poised,  a  clear 
judgment,  a  steady  friendship,  and  a  true  Christian  charity. 
To  such  a  nature  as  his,  Mr.  Pynchon  was  a  fountain  of 
strength,  and  light,  and  encouragement ;  and,  as  that  gen 
tleman  was  his  patron  in  a  certain  sense,  and  a  man  who 
was  his  equal  in  education,  and  eminently  his  superior  in 
social  and  political  position,  he  felt  no  humiliation  in  reveal 
ing  to  him  his  trials,  and  throwing  himself  upon  his  counsels 
and  sympathies. 

Commuk,  the  Indian,  who  sat  devouring  his  supper  in 
the  corner,  was  altogether  less  civilized  than  his  dress  indi 
cated,  for  that  was,  at  least,  half  English.  He  was  one  of 
the  thirteen  Indians  who  conveyed  by  deed  the  territory 
of  Agawam  to  Mr.  Pynchon  and  his  associates,  and  at  this 
time  had  upon  his  back  one  of  the  "eighteen  coats" 


18  THE     BAY     PATH. 

received  as  the  principal  consideration  named  in  the  convey 
ance.  The  deer-skin  leggings  and  moccasins  that  appeared 
below  it,  and  the  long  hair  and  nondescript  head-gear  exhi 
bited  above,  produced  a  figure  hardly  less  ludicrous  than 
wild  and  picturesque. 

The  effect  of  the  warm  fire  and  of  the  supper  upon  Com 
muk  was  such  as  to  interfere  entirely  with  the  progress  of 
the  trade,  for  he  had  no  sooner  completed  his  meal  than, 
securing  his  peltry,  he  stretched  himself  upon  the  floor  near 
the  fire,  and  went  to  sleep.  This  was  a  step  beyond  Mrs. 
Pynchon's  calculations.  It  interfered  with  ah1  her  ideas  of 
good  housekeeping.  Besides,  he  might,  if  allowed  to  re 
main  there,  set  the  house  on  fire.  She  had  no  special  fear 
of  the  Indian,  but  she  would  not  consent  to  sleep  in  the 
room  with  him ;  so  she  and  Mary  retired  together,  and  left 
John  and  his  father  to  occupy  the  apartment  with  the  In 
dian.  The  fire  was  replenished  with  heavy  logs,  and,  at  an 
early  hour,  silence  and  sleep  had  settled  upon  the  house 
hold. 


CHAPTER    II. 

AT  the  time  Mr.  Moxon  issued  from  the  house  of  Mr. 
Pynchon,  the  stars  were  sparkling  brightly  in  the  heavens, 
and  the  deep  snow  lay  still  and  white  beneath  them.  His 
own  house  was  not  far  off,  but  the  night  was  so  still  that 
he  walked  past  it,  wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  and  unmindful 
of  the  biting  cold.  He  walked  on  until  a  fox,  out  upon  a 
marauding  excursion,  crossed  the  path  but  a  few  feet  in  ad 
vance  of  him,  when  he  paused,  and  followed  with  his  eye 
the  suspicious  prowler,  as,  with  a  quickened  bound,  he  fled 
to  the  woods  upon  the  eastern  hill. 

Still  pausing,  he  looked  upward  and  around.  There,  from 
above,  looked  down  the  stars,  glowing  and  flashing  upon 
him  by  thousands,  and  yet  those  stars  were  worlds — parts 
of  great  systems,  freighted  with  wonderful  life  and  stupen 
dous  destinies !  There  they  wheeled  in  their  calm  cycles, 
and  filled  the  abysses  with  light  and  order,  and  the  music 
of  their  endless  song !  There  was  no  clash,  no  jar,  no  re 
bellion  there !  There  they  hung,  and  swung,  as  if  they 
were  the  lamps  that  lighted  the  passage  between  the  two 
eternities. 

He  looked  at  them  long,  and  then  dropped  his  eyes  upon 
the  dim  outline  of  cabins,  scattered  along  the  distance,  re 
vealing  from  an  occasional  glazed  aperture  the  light  that 
gleamed  from  blazing  hearths ;  and  they  seemed  so  lonely 
and  so  small,  that  it  appeared  almost  blasphemy  to  think 
that  they  should  come  within  the  cognizance  and  care  of 
the  infinite  God  of  an  infinite  universe.  And  then  he  came 
back  to  himself,  a  poor  unit,  a  weak  atom,  at  war  with  itself, 


20  THE     BAY     PATH. 

and  inharmonious  with  its  accidents ;  and  he  sank  down, 
down,  into  depths  of  conscious  insignificance,  so  fearfully 
profound,  that  death  and  despair  could  hardly  have  been 
darker. 

He  started  from  his  reverie  with  a  pang,  and  began  to 
retrace  his  steps.  He  had  walked  but  a  few  rods  when,  in 
passing  a  cabin,  he  heard  a  boisterous  laugh,  and  loud  voices 
in  merry  conversation.  He  knew  the  inmate,  and  disliked 
him.  He  was  a  new  comer  in  the  plantation,  and  he  had 
already  had  an  altercation  with  him.  The  minister  stood 
irresolutely  before  the  door,  questioning  whether  it  were 
his  duty  to  enter  or  pass  on.  He  felt  sure  that  there  were 
apprentices  in  the  house  who  had  stolen  from  their  homes 
to  listen  to  John  Woodcock's  stories. 

At  length,  the  half  sarcastic,  half  good-natured  voice  of 
the  occupant  broke  out  with — "  Come,  gal,  aint  it  about 
time  you  was  climbin'  them  'ere  wooden  notches  ?" 

The  reply  came  in  the  voice  of  a  petulant,  ill-trained  girl 
— "  No,  dad,  I  know  what  you  want.  I  know  what  you're 
goin'  to  do — you're  goin'  to  play  cards." 

"  Well,  little  one,  we  wont  trouble  you  to  keep  tally. 
'Twould  be  oncommon  perlite  in  you  to  do  it,  but  we're 
gentlemen — we  cant  'low  it." 

"  I  won't  go  up-stairs  to-night,  in  the  snow,  any  way," 
replied  the  girl  determinedly.  "  I  know  what  you  want." 

"You're  an  oncommon  smart  child,"  responded  the 
father,  growing  bitter  in  tone.  "  Didn't  you  never  hear  of 
a  little  gal,  about  your  size,  that  went  up  stairs  one  night, 
and  went  to  bed,  and  while  she  was  sound  asleep  the  boog- 
gers  come,  and  carried  off  her  poor  old  father,  and  several 
particular  friends,  and  didn't  touch  the  little  gal,  'cause 
they  had  such  long  toe-nails  they  couldn't  get  up  stairs  ?" 

An  impatient,  disdainful  ejaculation  from  the  girl,  and  a 
loud,  coarse  laugh  from  the  company  present,  were  the 
response  to  this  flight  of  the  father's  fancy. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  21 

"  Mary,  gal,"  pursued  the  father,  "  do  you  see  that 
picter  ?  That's  a  beautiful  picter,  ain't  it  ?  'Seems  to  me 
that  picter  looks  considerable  like  your  great-grandmother. 
Now  if  you'll  come  here,  you'll  find  them  features  will  put 
you  in  mind  of  somethin'." 

This  characteristic  allusion  to  a  rod  that  hung  upon  the 
wall  was  complimented  with  another  coarse  laugh  from  the 
speaker's  companions.  The  girl  was  still  determined  and 
silent. 

The  minister,  who  had  overheard  all,  and  had  become 
deeply  interested,  approached  the  door,  and  through  a  small 
window,  looked  into  the  room.  There  sat  the  girl,  staring 
into  the  fire,  with  her  thin  lips  pressed  firmly  together,  and 
her  eyes  strong  with  anger. 

At  length  feeling  that  the  storm  of  her  father's  wrath 
was  about  to  burst  upon  her  in  a  form  more  dreadful  than 
that  of  mockery,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  cry 
ing.  Then  her  tongue  was  loosed,  and  she  poured  out  upon 
her  father  her  insane  wrath  in  one  voluble  stream,  which  at 
last  subsided  into  a  hysterical  alternation  of  sobbing  and 
scolding.  The  scene  seemed  rather  to  amuse  her  father, 
who  sat  looking  at  her  coolly  during  its  continuance,  and 
then  asked  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  about  it. 

"  I'll  tell  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  Mr.  Moxon,  too,"  spitefully 
replied  the  child. 

The  matter  had  at  last  proceeded  too  far  to  be  decidedly 
pleasant,  even  to  Woodcock,  for  it  had  produced  a  painful 
silence  in  his  company,  and  he  dared  not  then  lay  a  finger 
on  his  child.  So,  referring  to  her  threat,  he  said,  "  Do  tell 
em : — happy  to  have  you  go  up  and  invite  the  gentlemen 
down  here.  Give  'em  John  Woodcock's  respects — happy 
to  see  'em  at  eight  o'clock — business  of  importance — mes 
senger  jest  in  from  the  Bay — arrival  of  the  Church  of  Eng 
land  on  wheels — Oh!  (arising  and  going  over  the  mock 
ceremony  of  receiving  the  gentlemen  alluded  to),  Mr.  Pyn- 


22  THE     BAY     PATH. 

chon!  I  trust  your  worship  is  well  to-night.  Sit  down,  sir; 
how's  the  old  woman,  and  what's  the  price  of  beaver  ?  I 
expect  Mr.  Moxon  here  soon,  and  then  we'll  have  a  quiet 
game  of  cards,  and  something  hot,  p'raps." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Moxon  would  come,"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
rising  and  looking  intently  at  the  door. 

There  was  something  in  her  action  and  manner  that 
attracted  every  eye,  and  even  her  father  paused,  and 
looked  with  the  company  at  the  door. 

They  had  been  in  that  position  but  a  moment,  when  the 
wooden  latch  was  slowly  raised,  the  door  was  opened,  and 
Mr.  Moxon  stood,  at  his  full  height  and  broad  dimensions, 
in  the  room.  There  were  three  lads  there,  who  did  not 
belong  there.  Pale  with  fright,  they  slunk  back  from  the 
light,  and  palling  their  caps  down  over  their  faces,  endea 
vored  to  pass  behind  him  out  of  the  door.  He  turned,  and 
recognised  each  as  he  passed,  and  closed  the  door  after 
them  as  they  retired.  Then  turning  to  Woodcock,  he  ad 
dressed  him  in  a  voice  in  which  sadness  and  sternness  were 
equal  ingredients : 

"  Goodman  Woodcock,  those  apprentices  have  been  se 
duced  here  by  you,  and  it  becomes  my  duty,  as  the  minister 
of  this  place,  to  reprimand  you  for  your  great  sin  in  this 
thing.  You  have  also  abused  that  child,  who,  without  a 
mother,  is  as  much  your  slave  as  your  daughter." 

Woodcock  was  no  coward,  but  he  was  taken  by  surprise, 
and  a  moment's  reflection  restored  him  to  himself.  Look 
ing  the  minister  doggedly  in  the  face,  he  replied,  "  If  I  was 
somebody  else,  and  somebody  else  was  John  Woodcock, 
and  a  gentleman  had  walked  into  his  house,  and  no  ques 
tions  asked,  and  stepped  between  him  and  his  friends,  sayin' 
nothin'  about  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  given  him  cold 
sass  and  what's  tantamount  to  a  Pope's  bull,  I  should  say 
to  John  Woodcock,  '  My  friend,  when  you  skin  your  own 
skunks,  in  your  own  cabin,  and  a  neighbor  who  comes 


THE     BAY     PATH.  23 

snuffin'  round  the  latch-string,  says  the  smell  is  onpleasant, 
say  to  that  gentleman  you  presume  there's  roses  in  the  next 
house,  and  people  dyin'  to  have  him  come  and  smell  on 
»em.' " 

"  I  understand  you,  John,  and  am  not  to  be  offended  by 
your  uncharitable,  not  to  say  impertinent,  remarks.  You 
will  very  probably  hear  of  this  again.  In  the  meantime,  I 
beg  that  you  will  treat  this  child  kindly  and  cease  to  sacri 
fice  her  comfort,  and  everything  good  in  her  character  to — 
to—" 

"  Oh,  don't  be  bashful,  Mr.  Moxon ;  now  you're  here, 
you  might  as  well  finish  up  the  business,  and  do  your  duty 
— in  season  and  out  of  season,  you  know,"  said  the  cool, 
hard-faced  man,  with  a  sneer. 

"  To  your  recklessness  of  religion,  and  your  depraved 
tastes,"  continued  the  minister. 

"  "  Yes,  that's  it — there's  where  it  comes.  I  don't  know 
what  would  become  of  religion  in  this  colony  if  it  wasn't 
for  John  Woodcock.  There's  been  a  great  many  saints 
made,  improvin'  their  gifts  on  me,  sir.  It  sort  o'  polishes 
'em  up,  and  finishes  'em  off,  to  practise  on  me.  I've  had 
people  come  forty  or  fifty  miles  sometimes  to  see  a  real  sin 
ner — one  of  the  genuine  article.  You  see  they're  rare  in 
this  country.  There's  so  many  Christians  here  that  people 
have  to  depend  on  their  neighbors  for  sins  enough  to  talk 
about." 

The  minister  looked  at  the  speaker  sadly,  as  he  went  on 
in  his  tone  of  biting  sarcasm,  and  seeing  that  he  could 
effect  nothing  further,  withdrew,  and,  closing  the  door  after 
him,  sought  his  home. 

The  evening  had  been  an  eventful  one  to  him.  The 
cabin  of  Woodcock  and  the  incidents  there  had  transformed 
him.  He  had  performed  what  he  believed  to  be  Christian 
duty,  and  though  it  had  not  produced  a  single  good  result 
towards  him  who  had  engaged  it,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  he 


24  THE     BAY     PATH. 

felt  like  a  new  man.  He  was  refreshed  and  invigorated. 
Turning  from  the  great  things  of  God  to  the  small  things 
of  duty ;  from  infinite  spheres  of  motion,  to  the  modest  cir 
cle  of  his  own  responsibilities,  from  the  passive  reception  of 
humbling  thoughts,  to  the  active  exertion  of  humble  power 
upon  objects  morally  and  intellectually  inferior  to  himself, 
he  had  grown  in  stature  and  in  strength,  measured  by  his 
own  emotions,  until  he  had  come  near  to  God,  by  a  faith 
that  satisfied,  and  that  bathed  his  heart  in  perfect  peace. 

After  he  left  "Woodcock's  cabin,  that  individual  sat  before 
his  fire,  for  some  tune,  in  silence.  At  length,  turning 
towards  his  daughter,  who  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  and 
preparing  her  mind  for  whatever  turn  affairs  might  take,  he 
said,  in  softened  tones,  "  Mary,  gal,  get  into  my  bunk,  and 
go  to  sleep.  I'll  manage  somehow." 

The  girl  started  to  her  feet,  and  seemed,  at  first,  as  if  she 
were  about  to  rush  into  her  father's  arms,  but  she  passed 
by  him,  and  commenced  gathering  a  bed  upon  the  floor, 
composed  of  blankets  and  skins.  As  soon  as  this  task  was 
completed,  she  hastily  prepared  herself  for  the  night,  and 
lying  down  upon  her  rude  bed,  was  soon  asleep.  The  father 
waited  until  the  bonds  of  unconsciousness  were  sufficiently 
strong  upon  her,  and  then,  lifting  her  gently  from  the  floor, 
he  laid  her  upon  his  own  rough  couch,  and  covering  her 
warmly,  resumed  his  seat  before  the  fire. 

""Well,"  exclaimed  he  at  last,  commencing  a  rambling 
soliloquy,  "  the  gate's  h'isted,  the  floom's  full  o'  water,  and 
John  "Woodcock's  the  grist.  I  wonder  if  the  gentleman 
that's  jest  took  toll  likes  the  grain.  It  don't  make  no  dif 
ference  whether  he  does  or  not.  "What  business  had  he 
to  come  in,  and  disturb  my  hen-roost,  and  scare  my  chick- 
eng  ?  But  that's  the  way  here— jest  so  in  Roxbury.  Minis 
ters  and  magistrates  always  nosin'  round,  'tendin'  to  their 
duties.  Duties!  who  made  'em  duties?  This 'ere  cabin's 
mine,  and  I'm  myself— John  "Woodcock.  I  don't  look  like 


THE     BAY     PATH.  25 

a  baby.  I  hav'n't  asked  anybody  to  come  and  watch  over 
me,  and  be  my  guardeen.  Here  they've  been  to  work, 
makiu'  a  devil  of  me  ever  since  I  landed,  tryin'  to  make  me 
a  saint — getting  me  mad  so's  to  make  me  better.  And 
there's  them  boys.  I've  got  'em  into  a  scrape,  I  s'pose, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I've  got  to  fellowship  with  some 
body,  and  so  have  they,  but  we  aint  any  of  us  pious  enough 
for  the  parson,  nor  perlite  enough  for  the  Square,  and  that's 
enough  to  drive  the  saints  out  of  sight  and  hearin'.  Won 
der  if  they  think  it's  natur  to  live  here  all  alone,  and  say 
nothin'  to  nobody. 

"  Arter  all,  the  Square  is  a  pretty  good  man.  He  thinks 
I  don't  know  what  he  come  here  from  Roxbury  for,  but  I'll 
bet  my  head  agin  a  pewter  mug  that  his  reason  for  comin' 
here  and  mine  look  enough  alike  to  be  twins.  I  see  it  plain 
enough  long  ago.  The  Bay  folks  was  too  stiff  for  him. 
He  didn't  like  bein'  crowded  better'n  I  do." 

Here  he  was  disturbed  by  words  from  his  child,  who, 
dreaming,  was  deprecating  some  punishment  from  his  hand. 
"  Poor  gal,"  continued  he,  "  I  haven't  but  just  found  you 
out.  You're  just  like  me,  too,  and  I've  'been  crowdin'  you 
just  as  other  folks  crowd  me.  I've  been  too  hard  on  you, 
Mary.  But  you're  strange — strange.  I  guess  we'll  get 
along  better,  after  this — I  guess  we  will." 

Woodcock  then  added  a  huge  log  to  his  fire,  took  a  few 
economical  whiffs  from  a  short  pipe,  and  committed  himself 
to  rest. 

John  Woodcock  has  introduced  himself  to  the  reader 
with  sufficient  detail,  perhaps,  but  it  will  be  proper  to  give 
a  brief  sketch  of  his  more  recent  history.  He,  with  John 
Cubel,  was  the  first  white  man  who  erected  a  house  in  the 
Connecticut  Valley.  In  1635,  he  was  sent  from  Roxbury, 
in  advance,  by  William  Pynchon  and  his  associates,  to  pre 
pare  a  dwelling  and  plant  corn.  He  was  just  the  man  to 
undertake  the  task.  At  the  distance  of  many  miles  from 

2 


26  THEBAYPATH. 

any  white  settlement,  Windsor  and  Hartford  being  the 
nearest,  he  had  sufficient  room  and  felt  no  restraint.  With 
a  strong,  original  nature,  he  spurned  all  control,  and  only 
asked  for  the  privilege  of  minding  his  own  business,  or  of 
doing  his  business  in  his  own  time  and  way.  He  was  not 
ill-natured,  but  he  had  grown  wilful  by  being  badgered 
by  church  and  police,  until  lie  was  sensitive  in  the  extreme. 
His  daughter  Mary  was  his  only  child,  the  only  child  of 
a  wife  who  had  been  dead  for  some  years.  Her  father's 
peculiarities  had  debarred  her  from  the  associations  so 
necessary  to  the  development  of  soft  and  childlike  traits, 
and  she  had  grown  to  the  age  of  twelve  with  passions  un 
checked,  and  with  a  character  whose  affinities  were  coarse, 
even  to  masculineness.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  secret  of  her  singular  development 
of  character.  He  had  thought  her  wilful  and  stubborn,  and 
so  she  was ;  but  as  soon  as  he  began  to  trace  in  her  a  like 
ness  to  himself,  his  heart  softened  with  a  kindly  sympathy, 
and  he  resolved  to  treat  her  more  tenderly. 


CHAPTER    III. 

ON  the  morning  following  the  events  that  have  been  re 
corded,  the  first  person  moving  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon 
was  Commuk,  the  Indian,  who,  long  before  daylight,  had 
exhausted  sleep,  and  newly  fed  the  expiring  fire.  The  ear 
liest  beams  of  the  morning  found  the  family  again  assembled, 
and  while  the  thick^smoke  of  the  kindling  pine  was  ascend 
ing  from  each  cabin  chimney  in  the  settlement,  through  the 
still,  icy  air,  Commuk  made  his  way  to  the  principal  village 
of  his  tribe,  but  a  short  distance  southward.  The  price  of 
his  beaver  skins — a  hatchet  and  a  balance  of  wampum — 
hung  in  his  belt,  while  a  few  trinkets,  presents  from  John 
and  Mary,  found  a  less  exposed  receptacle  in  the  honest 
English  pockets  of  his  coat. 

Soon  after  the  morning  devotions  wrere  concluded,  Mary, 
who  was  standing  at  the  window,  exclaimed,  "  I  wonder 
where  Mr.  Moxon  can  be  going  at  so  early  an  hour  this 
morning!" 

Mr.  Pynchon  joined  his  daughter  at  the  window,  but 
neither  attracted,  the  attention  of  the  reverend  gentleman, 
as  he  made  his  way  past  the  dwelling,  apparently  very 
much  absorbed  in  thought,  and  bent  upon  the  attainment 
of  an  immediate  object.  At  length  he  passed  beyond  the 
range  of  the  window,  and  disappeared,  but,  in  a  short  time, 
again  came  in  sight,  on  his  way  back,  and  directed  his  steps 
towards  Mr.  Pynchon's  house. 

Mary  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  cordial  grasp  of  the 
hand,  but  he  had  hardly  crossed  the  threshold  when  he  drew 
back,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  and  inquired 


28        s  THE     BAY     PATH. 

whether  the  Indian  had  gone.  On  being  assured  that  that 
individual  and  his  offensive  burden  were  both  out  of  the 
way,  he  came  forward,  and,  without  removing  his  coat  and 
muffler,  related  to  Mr.  Pynchon  the  events  of  the  previous 
evening,  in  connexion  with  his  visit  to  the  cabin  of  Wood 
cock  ;  and  stated  that  he  had  started  out  that  morning  to 
inform  the  masters  of  the  three  apprentices  he  had  found 
there  of  their  delinquency,  and  its  cause  and  probable  con 
sequences,  in  order  that  they  might  take  such  steps  with 
Woodcock  and  the  boys  as  they  might  deem  proper.  After 
arriving  at  the  house  of  the  first  of  these  masters,  he  had 
changed  his  mind,  and  come  back  to  ask  Mr.  Pynchon's 
advice  in  the  premises. 

Mr.  Moxon  watched  that  gentleman  as  he  received  the 
narrative,  and  when,  as  it  closed,  he  perceived  that  his 
hearer  hesitated,  his  own  positiveness  of  mind,  or  whatever 
amount  of  that  quality  he  possessed,  entirely  left  him,  and 
he  sat  down  irresolute,  and  with  the  old  symptoms  of 
dejection. 

At  length  Mr.  Pynchon  said  :  "I  know  John  Woodcock 
very  well.  I  have  known  him  for  several  years,  and  I  have 
seen  the  effect  upon  him  of  the  efforts  that  have  been  made 
to  curb  his  naturally  independent  spirit.  I  think  the  best 
thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  him  to  come  here,  and  have  a 
quiet  talk  with  us  upon  the  subject,  and  to  treat  him  in  a 
friendly  way.  It  is  the  tjjing  to  be  done  first,  I  am 
certain.'' 

As  Mr.  Moxon  madejno  objection  to  this  arrangement,  a 
messenger  was  sent  to  Woodcock,  requesting  him  to  call, 
as  soon  as  convenient,  at  Mr.  Pynchon's  house,  and,  at  the 
desire  of  Mary,  to  bring  his  child. 

The  temporary  suspension  of  this  matter  gave  to  both  of 
the  gentlemen  an  opportunity  to  recur  to  the  subject  always 
uppermost  in  their  thoughts  when  together— religion ;  and 
in  this  they  engaged  until  the  return  of  the  messenger,  who 


THE     BAT     PATH.  29 

.  reported  that  he  had  found  Woodcock  waiting  for  him,  and 
quite  impatient  that  he  had  not  come  before,  as  he  declared 
he  had  been  expecting  him  for  half  an  hour.  The  only 
thing  to  delay  him  was  the  bringing  of  his  daughtei-,  a  mat 
ter  for  which  he  had  not  calculated.  While  they  were 
talking,  Woodcock  came  in  sight,  bearing  his  child  upon 
his  back,  his  burden  being  completely  covered  by  a  wolf 
skin  that  dangled  downward  to  his  heels. 

The  poorly  suppressed  mirth  excited  by  his  appearance 
was  a  good  preparation  for  his  reception,  and,  when  he  ap 
peared  at  the  door,  there  was  not  a  frown  in  the  room  to 
throw  a  cloud  upon  his  coming.  Even  the  grave  lady  of 
the  house,  softened  by  the  influences  around  her,  looked  up 
kindly  at  the  old  culprit,  as  he  entered.  Woodcock  paused, 
and  without  letting  go  his  grasp  of  the  child's  hands,  held 
her  still  suspended  upon  his  shoulders,  as  he  bowed  to  one 
and  another  of  the  group;  and  then,  after  the  most  .con 
vulsive  workings  of  his  features,  he  burst  into  a  hearty; 
boisterous  fit  of  laughter. 

This,  of  course,  changed  the  aspect  of  things  at  once. 
The  dignity  of  the  house  and  the  presence  had  been  vio 
lated,  and  with  such  an  effect  as  to  assist  him  very  much  in 
regaining  control  of  his  emotions.  In  the  meantime,  Mary 
Pynchon  had  relieved  him  of  his  burden,  and  had  led  the 
poorly  clad,  haggard-looking  child  from  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  Woodcock  commenced  an 
apology.  "  Mr.  Pynchon,  I  beg  pardon — I  meant  no 
offence  to  your  honor,  or  your  house,  but  I  took  a  consait 
just  as  I  come  in,  that  this  'ere  old  wolf  skin  is  a  very  re 
markable  strip  of  hither.  It  took  twenty  men  two  days  to 
get  this  skin,  sir.  They  chased  the  critter  that  wore  it  one 
day,  and  dug  for  him  another,  and  when  they  brung  him 
home,  it  struck  me  that  the  animal  was  a  mighty  sight  too 
small  for  so  big  a  fuss.  So,  says  I  to  myself,  here's  the  old 
skin  agin,  and  a  miserable  critter  inside  of  it,  and  a  big 


30  THE     BAY     PATH. 

onreasonable  fuss  outside.  I  meant  no  offence  to  you,  sir, 
but  the  consait  was  a  little  too  much  for  me,  and  I  couldn't 
hold  in." 

Having  concluded  what  he  honestly  meant  should  be  a 
satisfactory  apology  for  Ms  rudeness,  Woodcock  threw  his 
wolf  skin  over  a  chair,  sat  down,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon  in  a  way  to  indicate  that  he  was  ready  for  business. 

That  gentleman  regarded  him  gravely  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  "  Goodman  "Woodcock,  I  am  informed  by  Mr. 
Moxon  that  you  are  pursuing  disorderly  practices  in  the 
plantation  by  enticing  apprentices  to  your  house,  and  har 
boring  them  at  unseasonable  hours ;  and  that,  when  repri 
manded  by  him,  you  gave  him  disrespectful  replies,  to  his 
great  grief  and  scandal.  He  proposed,  at  first,  to  bring  the 
matter  before  me  as  a  magistrate,  but  I  thought  we  had 
better  see  you,  and  talk  it  over  first,  and  ascertain  what  you 
had  to  say  about  it." 

A  bitter  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  the  old  woodman, 
as  he  replied,  "  I  thank  you,  Square,  for  considerin'  me,  but 
I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  to  do  me  any  good  this  way.  I've 
been  thinking  how  this  man  pushed  into  my  cabin  last  night, 
and  I  know  'twant  right ;  and  for  me  to  set  down  here  to 
be  labored  with,  and  him  to  set  there  with  his  pious  face  a 
lookin'  on,  as  if  he'd  done  nothin'  wrong,  goes  agin  my  grain 
and  makes  me  wicked." 

Mr.  Moxon  sat  very  uneasily  during  this  speech,  and, 
turning  to  Mr.  Pynchon  at  its  close,  remarked,  "  I  think, 
sir,  that  you  will  conclude  with  me  that  my  first  impulse 
was  the  true  one,  for  I  doubt  not  that  the  man  is  given  over 
to  a  reprobate  mind,  and  utter  hardness  of  heart." 

This  was  sufficient  to  throw  Woodcock  back  upon  his 
old  ground  of  mockery;  and,  turning  sharply  upon  the 
minister,  and  giving  him  his  characteristically  dogged  look 
of  defiance,  he  replied,  "  When  a  man  tells  me  in  a  sermon 
that  I  have  got  a  precious  soul,  and  that  his  heart  is  runnin5 


THE     BAY     PATH.  31 

over  with  love  for  me,  and  that  the  Lord  above  loves  me, 
too,  and  then  comes  into  my  house  to  get  me  to  tread  on 
his  toes,  and  calls  me  names  for  hurtin'  his  corns,  I'm  thank 
ful  I  got  hold  of  the  name  of  John  Woodcock  before  such 
a  one  as  George  Moxon  was  mixed  up  and  baked." 

"  Woodcock,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  sternly,  "  I  insist  on  no 
'  such  language  towards  your  minister,  and  shall  not  allow  it 
in  this  house." 

"  Well^here  it  is,  sir ;  you  turn  agin  me  as  soon  as  I 
touch  the  minister.  It's  jest  so  down  t'  the  Bay.  Magis 
trates  and  ministers  all  hang  together.  They  seem  to  think 
the  colony  was  made  for  them ;  but  who  does  the  work  ? 
They  have  all  the  honors,  and  the  rest  on  us  havj^to  stand 
back.  It's  '  Mister,'  and  '  Goodman  ;'  and  it's  '  set  here,' 
and  '  stand  there  ;'  and  it's  the  top  o'  the  milk  to  one,  and 
skim  milk  £o  the  other.  Here  you  are  a  rulin'  on  us,  and  I 
don't  see  the  justice  on  it.  P'raps  my  memory  is  unsartin, 
but  it  seems  to  me  I  have  read  somewhere  that  it's  the 
business  of  them  that  wants  to  be  great  to  serve  them  that 
aint  so  particular  about  it." 

Both  gentlemen  sat  somewhat  uneasily  during  this  criticism 
of  the  spirit  of  the  institutions  of  the  day,  and  the  homely 
but  pointed  reproofs  connected  with  it.  Mr.  Pynchon 
responded  briefly,  to  the  effect  that  he  did  not  propose  a 
discussion  of  questions  of  theology  or  state.  Woodcock 
had  been  invited  there  as  a  man  who  had  honorable  feelings, 
to  settle  a  matter  in  which  he  was  evidently  at  fault,  in  a 
manner  which  should  neither  injure  his  pride  nor  be  a  subject 
of  scandal  in  the  plantation.  He  hoped  no  more  trouble 
would  arise  in  relation  to  this  affair,  and  that  Woodcock 
would  cease  to  give  occasion  for  complaint.  As  for  Mr. 
Moxon,  he  had  done  simply  what  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to 
do,  and  in  the  execution  of  his  duty  had  not  transcended  the 
sphere  warranted  by  the  usages  of  the  colony  or  the  opinion 
of  the  church. 


32  THEBAYPATH. 

Woodcock  heard  him  through,  and  then  inquired  if  they 
were  done  with  him. 

"  I  am  done,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  a  bow  to  Mr. 
Moxon,  intimating  that  the  man  was  at  his  disposal. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  with  an  earnest,  solemn  air, 
"  to  say  a  few  words  of  warning,  and  then  I  shall  feel  as  if 
my  duty  had  been  discharged.  Goodman  Woodcock,  you  i 
are  placing  your  soul  in  peril  by  your  course  of  life,  and  even 
now  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  it  is  given  over  to  destruc 
tion.  Your  heart,  which  should  be  humble  and  penitent,  is 
stubborn  and  rebellious.  In  your  foolish  pride,  you  speak 
evil  of  dignities,  despise  the  religion  of  Christ  and  its 
ministers,  and  meet  the  reproof  due  to  your  course  of  life 
and  conduct  with  mockery.  I  warn  you  of  the  terrible  end 
of  all  this,  and  may  God  have  mercy  on  you,  and,  in  his 
infinite  grace,  save  your  soul !"  • 

All  this  was  uttered  with  genuine  feeling,  and  under  the 
dictates  of  a  sense  of  duty  that  even  Woodcock  did  not 
fail  to  recognise,  but  he  looked  at  the  minister  sadly  and 
bitterly,  and  replied,  "  'Taint  no  use  for  you  to  talk  to  me 
that  way.  You  can't  do  me  no  good.  You're  too  far  up, 
and  I'm  too  low  down.  Your  words  come  down  jest  like 
rain  spatterin'  on  a  rock.  They  don't  soak  in  any.  You 
ain't  the  'pothecary  to  give  me, physic,  and  that  ain't  the 
right  kind  of  stuff  if  you  was.  It  only  raises  the  devil  in 
me,  and  riles  me  all  up.  What's  the  use  trying  to  drive  a 
man,  and  running  agin  his  pluck,  if  he's  got  any,  when  you 
might  be  kind  o'  human  with  him  ?  No,  sir,  you've  made 
up  your  mind  agin  me,  I  know  that — and  when  I  know  you 
don't  understand  how  I  feel,  and  what  I'm  talking  to  you 
about,  it's  no  use  for  you  and  me  to  make  any  more  words." 

The  minister  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  Mr.  Pynchon. turned 
to  his  writing-desk,  as  if  to  hint  to  Mr.  Moxon  'that  the 
quicker  the  interview  was  terminated  the  better. 

"  Where's  the  gal  ?"  inquired  Woodcock,  rising. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  33 

Mr.  Pynchon  stepped  to  the  door  opening  into  the  apart 
ment  occupied  by  the  remainder  of  the  family,  and  told 
Mary  that  the  child's  father  was  about  to  depart.  The 
door  was  closed  for  a  moment,  then  it  was  re-opened,  and 
in  bounded  Mary.  Woodcock,  wild  with  delight,  clothed 
anew  with  articles  from  Mary  Pynchon's  stores  of  the  well 
preserved  garments  of  her  childhood,  a  snug  pair  of  mocca 
sins  on  her  feet,  and  a  warm  hood  upon  her  head. 

"  Oh,  father !  father !"  exclaimed  the  delighted  child  ; 
and  unable  to  express  her  own  feelings,  or  give  direction  to 
his,  she  stood  on  tiptoe  before  him,  and  stretched  up  first  one 
arm  for  his  inspection,  then  the  other,  then  turned  around, 
put  her  hand  upon  her  head,  lifted,  one  after  the  other,  her 
feet,  and  exhausted  every  childish  ingenuity  to  exhibit  the 
extent  and  beauty  of  her  newly  gotten  treasures ;  and  then, 
as  she  could  do  no  more,  she  threw  her  head  upon  his  lap, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

In  the  meantime,  Ma;y  Pynchon  and  the  pet  deer  had 
entered  the  room.  'Som  (the  name  of  the  pet),  went  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  company,  lifting  his  slender  neck 
towards  their  faces,  and  making  himself  generally,  though 
inoffensively  inquisitive,  until  he  came  to  Mary  Woodcock, 
when  he  put  his  cool  nose  down  to  her  cheek,  and  brought 
her  once  more  to  her  feet,  feeing  the  eyes  of  all  bent  upon 
her,  she  moved  off  with  Tom  to  the  window,  as  if  deeply 
chagrined  at  having  made  herself  so  conspicuous. 

Woodcock  sat  still  for  a  few  moments,  his  lips  quivering 
with  an  emotion  that  he  could  not  suppress,  and  then,  rising, 
he  approached  Mary  Pynchon,  and  said,  "  Miss  Pynchon,  I 
hav'n't  no  words  for  such  as  you,  and  you  don't  need  'em. 
You've  got  plenty  of  better  ones  made  a  purpose  for  you. 
That  old  Bible  up  there  is  full  on  'em,  and  when  you  find 
some  in  it  that  are  jest  as  thankful  and  jest  as  humble  as 
they  can  be,  I  want  you  should  remember  John  Wood 
cock,  and  think  he's  sayin'  'em  to  you." 

2* 


34  TIIEBAYPATH. 

Mary  was  touched  by  his  emotion,  and,  taking  his  rough 
hand,  said,  "  I  am  very  glad  if  I  have  done  anything  tc 
make  you  and  your  little  girl  happy.  I  hope  you  will  be 
very  kind  to  Mary,  for  she  has  no  mother,  and  must  be  very 
much  alone.  Do  let  her  come  and  see  me  sometimes."  - 

"  Do  you  understand  that,  sir  ?"  said  Woodcock,  turning 
to  Mr.  Moxon.  "  That's  what  I  call  preachin'.  I  haint  been 
much  used  to  such  preachin'  as  that,  but  I  know  it's  genuine. 
It's  the  only  kind  for  my  case.  Do  you  s'pose  I'd  lay  a  finger 
on  that  gal  of  mine  with  a  heart  like  Mary  Pynchon's  lovin' 
her  ?  Do  you  'spose  I  wouldn't  work  for  her,  and  bear  with 
her,  strange  and  offish  as  she  is  sometimes,  when  I  see  such 
a  woman  fussin'  over  her,  and  makin'  her  comfortable  and 
happy?  I  feel  as  if  my  gal  had  just  been  baptized,  which 
she  never  was,  and  I  couldn't  feel  much  better  myself,  if  I'd 
been  took  into  the  church,  which  I  ain't  fit  for,  the  Lord 
knows.  That's  the  kind  o'  preachin'  that  does  me  good." 

So  saying,  he  walked  up  to  his  little  girl,  and  was  about 
to  lift  her  upon  his  back,  but  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
go  by  herself.  He  then  threw  the  wolf  skin  over  his 
shoulders,  bade  a  homely  good  morning  to  the  silent  family, 
and,  preceded  by  his  child,  who,  elated  with  her  new  pos 
sessions,  went  bounding  through  the  snow  before  him, 
sought  his  own  cabin.  ^ 

"God  hath  chosen  the  foolish  things  of  the  world  to  con 
found  the  wise,  and  God  hath  chosen  the  weak  things  of  the 
world  to  confound  the  things  which  are  mighty,"  said  Mr. 
Pynchon,  looking  with  a  smile  at  his  daughter,  as  Wood 
cock  closed  the  door. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Mary,  archly,  "  that  we  shall 
quarrel  in  dividing  that  quotation  satisfactorily  among  our 
selves,  and  it  is  pity  John  Woodcock  had  not  remained  a 
little  longer,  as  he  might  have  assisted  us." 

"  What  portion  of  it  do  you  suppose  he  would  wish  to 
appropriate  to  himself?"  inquired  Mr.  Moxon,  looking  up. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  35 

"  He  would  claim  for  himself  neither  wisdom  nor  might, 
I  presume,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Hum !  No — that  belongs  to  the  confounded  party,  of 
course,"  replied  the  minister,  slightly  nettled.  "  I  do  not 
approve'  of  playing  with  texts  of  Scripture,  but  it  seems  tc 
me  that,  with  this  application,  the  quotation  should  have 
been  extended.  'And  the  base  things  of  $he  world,  and 
things  which  are  despised,'  would  more  fully  complete  the 
description  of  the  man,  in  my  opinion."  /  /rf»""*- 

Mary  did  not  like  the  tone  in  which 'these  rema^l  were 
uttered,  and  playfully  sought  to  divert  the  course  of  con 
versation  by  saying  that  she  thought  they  were  compliment 
ing  Woodcock  too  highly.  '  She  claimed  a  little  credit  for 
herself,  and  even  Woodcock  had  accorded  to  her  the  merit 
of  being  a  good  preacher ;  though  for  her  part,  she  could 
not  see  as  her  sermon  had  more  than  one  head,  and  that 
had  a  hood  on  it,  or  that  its  application  consisted  of  more 
than  an  old  frock  and  a  pair  of  moccasins.  She  would  pre 
fer  that  those  articles  of  apparel  receive  the  compliments 
bestowed  on  Woodcock  rather  than  he  should  have  them  all 
to  himself. 

Mrs.  Pynchon,  who  abounded  especially  in  the  grace  of 
silence,  and  who  really  had  excellent  traits  of  character, 
springing  from  a  basis  of  practical  common  sense,  was  accus 
tomed,  in  the  course  of  any  family  scene  or  social  interview, 
to  make  some  remark  which,  with  a  fatal  perversity,  rarely 
failed  to  be  one  that  amused  its  hearers  with  its  utter  inno 
cence  of  pertinency  and  point.  This  seemed  to  spring  from 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  remember  the  conversation  and 
events  out  of  which  grew  the  peculiar  -aspect  of  the  subject 
upon  which  she  might  happen  to  remark ;  and  it  was  for 
this  reason,  doubtless,  that  her  choice  speeches  were  irre 
levant  by  rule,  and  rarely  failed  to  excite  a  smile,  even 
among  those  who  respected  her  most  and  loved  her  best. 
Her  reverence  for  her  husband  was  thoroughly  sincere,  and 


36  THE     BAY     PATH. 

as  formal  as  sincere,  and,  with  many  of  the  matrons  of  her 
day,  she  believed  that  her  special  duties  pertained  to  the 
good  ordering  of  the  house,  the  economical  administration 
of  the  kitchen  and  the  wardrobe,  and  that  when  this  was 
done,  and  well  done,  there  was  little  time  for  anything  else. 

In  regard  to  the  frock  that  Mary  had  just  given  away  so 
readily,  she  felt  some  sensitiveness,  as  it  was  only  through 
her  own  considerate  economy  that  it  had  been  brought  from 
the  Bay.  So  the  frock  became  the  prominent  object  in  her 
thoughts,  and  the  one  around  which  all  the  events  and  asso 
ciations  of  the  morning  clustered;  and  when  she  felt  moved 
to  speak,  she  stated  that  the  frock  was  really  a  very  good 
one,  and  she  was  sorry  it  had  made  so  much  trouble.  She 
had  taken  care  of  it,  thinking  that  perhaps  by  and  by  Mary 
might  get  married,  when  she  was  sure  she  would  find  it  very 
handy. 

"  Mother  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  blushing  to  her  temples, 
and  then  turning  quickly  to  the  pet  she  said,  "  Come,  Tom, 
let  us  go,"  and  retired  from  the  room.  But  the  blush  retired 
with  her,  as  well  as  Tom,  and  her  thoughts  wandered  off 
and  away,  along  the  Bay  Path,  through  the  thick,  dark 
woods,  and  over  the  Streams,  and  across  the  hills — the  weary 
path  over  which  she  had  travelled  nearly  two  years  before — 
and  there  came  up  to  her  mind  the  form  of  one  who  had 
moved  with  grace  and  majesty  in  her  dreams,  and  whose 
Dright,  bold  face,  and  mild,  resolute  eye,  had  been  to  her 
through  all  the  months  of  her  lonely  dwelling  at  Agawam, 
a  charming  presence  and  a  kindly  power. 

Mr.  Pynchon,  Mr.  Moxon,  and  Woodcock,  were  not  im 
proper  representatives  of  three  prominent  classes  of  men  in 
the  early  days  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  colony.  The  first 
represented  the  highest  and  noblest  class  in  the  colony.  He 
was  as  intelligently  orthodox  in  faith  as  any  of  his  contem 
poraries,  but  much  less  bigoted  and  intolerant  than  most  of 
them.  He  had  the  sense  to  see  that  the  rigid  policy  of  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  37 

government  of  the  colony,  intimately  connected,  as  it  was, 
not  only  with  the  government  of  the  church,  but  with  its 
type  of  religious  faith  and  life,  had  the  double  tendency  of 
dwarfing  and  perverting  the  development  of  those  who  came 
willingly  and  conscientiously  under  its  yoke,  and  of  driving 
into  recklessness  and  desperation  those  free  and  strong 
spirits  who  felt  the  yoke  to  be  an  intolerable,  if  not  an  igno 
minious,  burden.  To  the  last  class  Woodcock  belonged. 
The  spirit  which  he  manifested  in  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Moxon  was  the  legitimate  result  of  the  treatment  to  which 
he  had  been  subjected.  He  had  grown  morose  and  quar 
relsome  under  it,  until  he  had  come  to  regard  a  minister 
with  hatred  and  contempt,  and  to  look  upon  the  leading 
men  in  the  colony  as  in  league  with  the  ministers  to  do  him 
evil.  He  seemed,  however,  to  appreciate  the  difference 
th#t  existed  between  Mr.  Pynchon  and  most  of  his  class, 
and  to  regard  him  with  a  sympathetic  respect  that  betrayed 
a  nature  still,  in  many  respects,  true  to  itself. 

It  was  with  the  more  rigid  class  of  political  religionists 
that  Mr.  Moxon  sympathized ;  and  that  class  was  in  power, 
and  maintained  their  position  for  many  years,  until  at  last 
the  church  became  separate  from  the  government,  and  more 
liberal  and  enlightened  counsels  prevailed  in  both  bodies. 

Consequently  it  was  that,  as  the  minister  left  the  house 
of  Mr.  Pynchon,  he  left  it  poorly  satisfied  with  the  result 
of  the  morning's  operations.  He  thought  too  lenient  a 
course  had  been  pursued  with  Woodcock — one  calculated 
to  make  him  regard  his  sin  as  of  little  account — one,  even, 
that  seemed  to  reward  him  for  his  obstinacy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  Sabbath  morning  following  these  occurrences  was  still, 
clear,  and  frosty ;  not  a  soul  was  stirring,  and  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  the  lonely  cows  of  the  settlement  had  forgotten  to  call 
to  each  other  from  their  scattered  sheds. 

At  length,  when  the  morning  had  well  advanced,  a  \vin- 
dow  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon  was  raised,  and  a  small 
white  signal  hung  out — an  announcement  of  the  hour,  by 
the  only  timepiece  in  the  settlement.  Immediately,  from  a 
house  within  sight,  a  sturdy  figure  came  forth,  bearing  a 
very  singular  looking  Sabbath  burden.  It  was  a  drum,  on 
which  the  bearer  proceeded  to  beat  a  brisk  tattoo,  which  he 
continued  from  one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other,  with  such 
interruptions  in  his  rhythm  as  occasional  snow-drifts  and 
unavoidable  missteps  would  naturally  produce. 

The  drum-beat  changed  the  aspect  of  the  village  imme 
diately.  Men,  women,  and  children  poured  out  of  their 
humble  dwellings,  and  bent  their  steps  towards  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon's  house,  no  meeting-house  having  been  built,  and  that 
being  the  largest  house  in  the  settlement, — large  enough, 
too,  to  hold  all  the  white  inhabitants  without  discomfort. 

The  first  individuals  who  arrived  were  those  the  least 
interested  in  the  occasion — the  apprentice  boys.  Among 
them  were  those  already  introduced  to  the  reader  under 
somewhat  suspicious  circumstances.  The  leader  of  this  little 
company  was  one  Peter  Trimble.  It  was  he  who  opened 
the  door,  put  his  head  in  to  see  if  everything  was  right,  put 
it  out  again  to  assure  his  friends  that  the  survey  was  satis 
factory,  walked  in,  beckoned  the  others  to  follow  walked 


THE     BAY     PATH.  39 

across  the  floor,  took  his  seat  upon  a  rough-board,  temporary 
benchj  motioned  to  the  others  to  do  the  same,  and  then 
winked  significantly  at  John  Pynchon.  John  looked  at  him 
with  gravity,  but  when  he  saw  Peter  thrust  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  and  change  his  little  mass  of  features  into  a  physiog 
nomical  interjection,  and  give  two  or  three  emphatic  forward 
dodges  of  his  head,  as  if  he  would  have  said,  "  Oh !  John 
Pynchon,  you  haven't  the  smallest  possible  idea  what  I've 
got  in  my  pocket — I'm  dying  to  show  it  to  you,"  John  could 
not  withstand  the  temptation,  and,  passing  quietly  across 
the  room,  he  took  his  seat  near  the  mysterious  Peter. 

Peter's  object  was  accomplished,  and  so,  without  making 
any  further  allusion  to  the  contents  of  a  pocket  that  never 
had  a  presentable  occupant,  except  in  chestnut  time,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  unroll,  with  slyly  rustling  whispers,  the  budget 
of  his  gossip. 

"  Seen  old  Woodcock  lately,  John  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

John  looked  around  the  room  to  see  if  he  was  observed, 
but  made  no  answer.  As  soon  as  the  stamping  at  the  door 
gave  opportunity,  however,  Peter  resumed : 

"  When  have  you  seen  old  Moxon  ?" 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Moxon  yesterday,"  replied  John,  a  little 
indignant,  as  he  knew  that  his  father  was  liable  to  similar 
familiar  treatment. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Moxon — yes !  well — what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Said  a  good  many  things,"  replied  John,  with  his  eyea 
on  his  father. 

"  Anything  about  me  ?" 

"  I  didn't  hear  anything ;  why  ?" 

"  Oh !  the  greatest  row  you  ever  see." 

"  What  was  it  ?"  inquired  John. 

"  Oh !  the  darndest  row — you've  no  idea." 

"  Anybody  hurt  ?" 


40  THEBAYPATH. 

"Well,  no — not  exactly  hurt,  but  'twas  an  old  row, 
now." 

"Don't  talk  quite  so  loud — tell  me  about  it,"  said 
John  cautiously,  his  curiosity  having  been  considerably 
excited. 

"Well,"  said  Peter — "down  to  old  Woodcock's  on  a 
time  t'other  Right — game  o'  cards  on  the  board — pipes  all 
round — in  come  old  Moxon,  and  pitched  into  us; — old 
Woodcock  drew  off,  and  let  him  have — doubled  him  up — 
these  two  fellows  left — scat  to  death — we  locked  the  door, 
and  I  made  the  parson  promise  not  to  tell." 

"  Peter,"  said  John,  "  I  believe  you  are  lying  to  me.  I'll 
ask  the  other  boys  to-morrow." 

"  Well — 'twas  a  great  row,  waan't  it  ?  Oh  !  you  ought 
to  'a  been  there." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  John,  his  curiosity 
having  sunk  into  solemn  disappointment  and  vexation  at 
being  so  heartlessly  betrayed.  Then  rising,  he  took  his 
seat  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

Peter  had  only  made  a  commencement  of  his  business. 
His  next  care  was  to  cover  \ip  his  tracks.  So,  turning  to 
his  companions,  he  informed  them  in  broken  whispers  of  the 
story  he  had  told  John,  and  how  John  had  swallowed  the 
whole  thing,  and  only  wished  he  had  been  one  of  the  com 
pany  at  Woodcock's. 

"  Now  mind,"  said  Peter  to  the  boys,  "if  John  says  any 
thing  about  this  to  you,  you  just  back  me  up,  and  we'll 
have  the  greatest  kind  of  sport  out  of  it."  This  last  assur 
ance  was  eked  out  with  various  animated  nods  and  ex 
pressive  winks,  tending  to  impress  upon  their  minds  the 
infinite  degree  of  satisfaction  in  store  for  them,  if  they 
would  but  follow  his  instructions. 

Peter  was  not  exactly  satisfied  with  the  kind  of  assent  he 
had  obtained  to  his  propositions,  and  as  soon  as  opportunity 
was  offered,  by  the  noise  occasioned  by  a  new  arrival,  he 


THE     BAY     PATH.  41 

turned  to  his  companions,  and,  assuming  a  threatening  aspect 
of  countenance,  and  executing  several  fierce  diagonal  nods, 
said,  "  You  do  just  as  I  tell  you,  now  ;  if  you  don't  you'll 
catch  it.  I'll  duck  you — I'll  rub  your  face  in  the  snow  till 
you  can't  see.  You  just  try  that  once — I'll  take  it  out  of 
your  hide." 

How  much  further  the  redoubtable  Peter  would  have 
proceeded,  had  it  not  been  for  a  slight  interruption  that 
occurred  at  this  moment,  it  is  impossible  to  tell,  but,  as 
adverse  fortune  would  have  it,  he  had  become  so  much 
absorbed  in  his  own  proceedings  as  to  forget  to  keep  an  eye 
out  for  those  in  progress  around  him,  and  just  as  he  was 
about  to  launch  another  thunderbolt  at  the  heads  of  his 
dumb  and  fearful  friends,  he  felt  a  sharp  rap  upon  his  own 
head,  and,  looking  up  hurriedly,  he  saw  above  him  a  long 
stick,  while  at  the  other  end  of  it  stood  Henry  Smith,  look 
ing  at  him  in  solemn  reproof.  Peter  immediately  appeared 
to  have  a  vision  of  an  infinitely  attenuated  cobweb,  swing 
ing  somewhere  in  infinite  space,  and  to  have  brought  to 
mind  some  favorite  passage  of  scripture  which,  through  the 
almost  unconscious  machinery  of  his  lips,  he  endeavored  to 
render  verbatim  to  his  inmost  soul.  When  the  bearer  of 
the  rod  became  satisfied  with  the  impression  he  had  made, 
he  withdrew  it,  and  gave  it  a  convenient  standing  place 
near  his  seat. 

The  assembly  had  become,  during  the  few  brief  minutes 
occupied  by  this  side  scene,  an  interesting  and  impressive 
one.  The  most  striking  figure  of  the  group— made  so  by 
his  age,  intellectual  appearance,  and  dress — was  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon.  Draped  in  a  long,  silver-buttoned  coat  that  nearly 
concealed  his  deer  skin  small-clothes,  and  the  puffs  and 
rosettes  that  marked  the  junction  of  the  latter  with  his  hose, 
with  a  broad  collar  or  band  of  linen  lying  flat  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  a  closely  fitting  cap  upon  his  head,  he  was 
the  impersonation  of  quiet  dignity  and  patriarchal  grace. 


42  THEBAYPATH. 

Near  him  sat  his  family — Mrs.  Pynchon  with  her  stiffly 
starched  and  formidable  ruff,  that  cast  into  comparative 
insignificance  the  quiet  face  above  and  the  prim  form  below  ; 
Mary  and  John,  side  by  side ;  and  Henry  Smith  and  his 
wife,  already  introduced  as  the  children,  respectively,  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pynchon.  Henry  Smith  was,  as  an  ancient 
record  of  him  declares,  "a  godly,  wise  young  man,"  and 
both  he  and  his  wife  bore  that  expression  of  earnest  seri 
ousness  that  marked  them  as  the  possessors  of  a  religion 
that  to  them  was  an  all-comprehending,  all-informing  reality. 
There,  too,  was  Jehu  Burr,  the  carpenter,  a  short,  pompous 
man,  who  had  within  a  few  months  become  greatly  import 
ant  in  his  own  eyes  for  having  been  sent,  in  company  with 
Mr.  Moxon,  a  deputy  to  Hartford ;  and  by  the  side  of  him 
his  family.  Others,  whose  names  need  not  be  called,  filled 
tip  the  large  room  ;  and  in  each  corner,  near  their  owners* 
stot)d  the  faithful  muskets,  which  were  the  companions  of  the 
colonists,  alike  in  the  field,  the  forest,  and  the  house  of  God. 

It  was  not  until  after  all  these  were  seated  that  Mr. 
Moxon  appeared,  with  his  wife  and  one  little  child  follow 
ing  him.  Mrs.  Moxon  was  a  small,  nervous-looking  woman, 
with  a  sad  expression  of  countenance,  and  a  wild,  wan  look 
about  her  dark  eyes  that  indicated  poor  health,  and  a  fami 
liar  acquaintance  with  suffering.  While  the  minister  took 
a  central  seat  reserved  for  him,  his  wife  and  child  found  an 
unobtrusive  location  among  the  audience,  and  sat  down. 

Then  all  was  still  for  a  moment,  when  the  door  was  again 
opened,  and  John  Woodcock  walked  in,  attended  by  his 
daughter.  He  looked  around  upon  the  group,  and  the  cold 
looks  which  he  met  in  return  performed  their  usual  office 
upon  him.  His  heart  hardened  as  he  stood,  and  he  sat 
down,  steeled  against  every  appropriate  influence  of  the 
time  and  place.  Taking  his  seat  near  the  door,  and  draw 
ing  his  girl  between  his  knees,  he  gave  himself  up  to  his 
old  rebellious  thoughts  and  bitter  reflections. 


THE     BAY     PATU.  43 

All  was  silence  again.  The  minister  sat  turning  over  a 
book  of  the  Psalms,  and  giving  occasional  utterance  to  an 
ejaculation  intended  to  prepare  his  throat  for  speaking,  each 
time  recovering  from  the  effort  by  an  inhalation  through 
his  nose,  that  gave  forth  a  peculiar  whistling  sound  which 
had  become  familiar  to  the  boys,  and  ludicrous  through 
Peter  Trimble's  attempts  to  imitate  it.  The  ejaculation  and 
the  whistle  were  given,  at  last,  with  unusual  power,  when 
Peter,  who  sat  with  his  arms  folded  very  circumspectly, 
managed  to  give  a  sly  thrust  with  his  finger  into  the  ribs 
of  his  next  neighbor,  when  that  individual,  already  fully 
charged,  gave  utterance  to  an  explosive  snicker  that  brought 
the  long  stick  again  into  use,  and  smartly  down  upon  his 
hard  little  head. 

Peter's  vision  of  the  infinitely  attenuated  cobweb,  swing 
ing  somewhere  in  infinite  space,  was  renewed. 

The  space  of  time  between  the  whistle  and  the  laugh  was 
so  small,  that  they  assumed,  in  every  mind,  the  relation  of 
cause  and  effect, — so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  Mr.  Moxon  wag 
sensibly  irritated  and  discomposed,  and,  perhaps,  without  a 
thought  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  looked  around  and  caught 
Woodcock's  eye.  The  expression  that  he  met  there  did 
not  tend  to  re-assure  him,  but  he  arose  and  offered  the  open 
ing  prayer,  and  then  gave  out,  to  be  sung,  the  first  Psalm. 

"  That  man  hath  perfect  blessedness, 

who  walketh  not  astray 
In  counsel  of  ungodly  men, 

nor  stnnds  in  sinners'  "way; 
Nor  sitteth  in  the  scorner's  chair; 

but  placeth  his  delight 
Upon  God's  law,  and  meditates 

on  his  law  day  and  night. 

"  He  shall  be  like  a  tree  that  grows, 

near  planted  by  a  river, 
"Which  in  his  season  yields  his  fruit, 

and  his  leaf  fadeth  never ; 
And  all  he  doth  shall  prosper  welL 

The  wicked  are  not  so, 


44  THEBAYPATH. 

But  like  they  are  unto  the  chaff, 
•which  wind  drives  to  and  fro. 

"  In  judgment  therefore  shall  not  stand 

such  as  ungodly  are ; 
Nor  in  th'  assembly  of  the  just 

shall  wicked  men  appear. 
For  why  ?  the  way  of  godly  men 

unto  the  Lord  is  known: 
Whereas  the  way  of  wicked  men 

shall  quite  be  overthrown." 

Woodcock  listened  to  the  reading  of  the  psalm,  and  grew 
angry  until  it  closed.  He  felt  it  to  be,  in  effect,  a  public 
reprimand,  as  well  as  a  means  of  private  revenge.  So  far 
had  he  become  incensed  towards  Mr.  Moxon,  by  dwelling 
on  his  supposed  wrongs,  that  he  believed  him  incapable  of  a 
Christian  feeling, — incapable  of  any  feeling,  in  fact,  in  which 
he  had,  or  by  possibility  could  have,  any  sympathy.  But 
when  the  singing  was  commenced,  and  the  full,  clear  voice 
of  Mary  Pynchon — rich  in  its  revelations  of  hope  and  trust 
and  peace — interfused  itself  with,  and  rose  above  the  har 
mony  of  the  simple  choral,  Woodcock  closed  his  eyes,  and 
bowed  his  head  upon  his  child's  shoulder  in  deep  emotion. 
The  huge  logs  were  steaming  on  the  hearth,  and  the  sound, 
mingling  with  the  solemn  song,  brought  back  a  vision  of  his 
boyhood.  Through  the  gathering  mists  of  the  past  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  mother  singing  at  her  distaff,  and 
of  himself,  sitting  at  the  door,  looking  out  into  the  sweety 
summer  rain. 

And  still  the  voice  sang  on,  and  the  old  logs  hissed  on 
the  hearth. 

And  then  came  up  before  him  a  calm,  patient  face — 
courageous  and  resolute  in  its  calmness  and  patience — the 
face  of  one  so  true  to  him,  so  loving  and  so  loyal,  that  at 
last,  travelling  willingly  in  the  hard  path  over  which  he  had 
called  her  to  walk  with  him,  she  had  fainted,  lain  down,  an<3 
died. 


THEBAYPATH.  45 

'.'       *•* 

And  still  the  voice  sang  on,  and  the  old  logs  hissed  on 
the  hearth. 

And  then  came  to  him  a  realization — vague,  perhaps,  but 
genuine — of  the  waywardness  of  his  own  heart,  and  its  utter 
perverseness  under  the  influences  which  rested  upon  it,  and, 
as  he  apprehended  the  softening  effect  of  the  music  of  that 
only  voice  that  he  heard  or  cai'ed  to  hear,  he  wished  that 
the  old  logs  would  hiss  on  and  the  voice  sing  on  for  years, 
and  that  at  last  he  might  arise  a  changed  and  happy  man. 
He  felt  that  he  was  far  from  the  possession  of  that  perfect 
blessedness  attributed  to  the  subject  of  the  psalm  whose 
serious  lesson  was  falling  upon  his  ears ;  and  yet  he  needed 
it  and  longed  for  it,  and  felt  that  if  circumstances  were  dif 
ferent  with  him,  he  might  have  it  yet,  and  be  able  at  last 
to  lie  down  in  the  grave,  wrapped  in  the  confidence  of  a 
blessed  hope. 

The  singing  ceased,  and  still  the  head  of  the  father  was 

O         O  ' 

bowed  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  child.  Another  prayer — 
long,  fervent,  and  full  of  the  heartfelt  expression  of  Christian 
aspiration — was  pronounced,  and  Woodcock,  softened,  and 
longing  for  a  peace  which  his  heart  told  him  was  some 
where,  in  something,  waiting  for  him,  joined  in  the  suppli 
cation — feebly  and  imperfectly,  as  a  man  nnused  to  prayer 
— and  laid  the  burden  of  his  soul  upon  the  utterance  of  one 
whose  words,  but  a  few  brief  moments  before,  had  come  to 
him  only  with  malevolent  suggestions.  "When  the  prayer 
was  closed,  he  longed  to  hear  the  Bible  read.  He  wished 
for  no  words  from  man  ;  but  the  reading  of  the  Great  Book 
in  the  public  exercises  of  the  Sabbath,  at  that  day,  was  a 
forbidden  service.  So,  lifting  his  eyes  to  Mr.  Moxon,  with 
a  stern  resolution  to  keep  out  his  bad  thoughts,  if  possible, 
he  listened  for  the  announcement  of  his  text. 

"  12ut  after  thy  hardness  and  impenitent  heart,  treasuresl 
up  unto  thyself  wrath  against  the  day  of  wrath,  and  revela 
tion  of  the  righteous  judgment  of  God." 


46  THKBAYPATn. 

Woodcock  shook  his  head,  arose  from  his  seat,  placed  his 
girl  upon  the  bench,  and  then,  taking  his  gun,  opened  the 
door  and  retired  from  the  house.  The  charm  was  broken — 
the  hallowed  and  hallowing  influence  dissipated.  The  tran 
sition  to  his  old  feeling  of  hardness  and  half-regretful 
defiance  was  accompanied  by  a  sigh  as  painful  as  it  was 
profound,  and  by  the  characteristic  exclamation,  "  It's  no 
use." 

Mr.  Moxon  waited,  before  proceeding,  for  the  restoration 
of  silence,  but  order  and  attention  were  not  secured  for 
some  minutes.  Both  Mr.  Pynchon  and  Mary  understood 
and  appreciated  the  cause  of  Woodcock's  withdrawal,  and 
felt  disturbed.  Peter  Trimble's  curiosity  was  very  much 
aroused.  Bending  down  in  a  mock  effort  to  fix  his  shoe, 
he  exclaimed  to  the  victim  at  his  side,  in  a  low  whisper, 
"  Indians !" 

The  boy  was  instantaneously  and  involuntarily  on  his 
feet,  his  neck  stretched  up,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Down  came  the  long  stick  of  Henry  Smith  upon  his  head, 
and  down  came  the  boy.  The  stick  was  so  near  to  Peter 
that  his  glimpse  of  the  cobweb  was  this  time  extremely 
brief  and  uncertain. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  had  begun  to  attract  serious  atten 
tion,  Peter  made  another  errand  to  his  shoe,  and  whispered, 
"  What  did  you  see  ?" 

"  Stars,"  replied  the  boy,  unconscious  of  anything  but  his 
last  impression. 

This  reply  came  near  proving  too  much  for  Peter's 
gravity,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  command 
himself  with  sufficient  confidence  to  raise  his  head. 

At  the  termination  of  the  services  of  the  morning,  little 
Mary  Woodcock,  who  had  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
Mary  Pynchon  through  the  greater  portion  of  the  time 
they  had  occupied,  rose,  and  stood  by  the  door,  while  the 
congregation  passed  her  in  retiring.  The  look  of  recogni 


THE     BAY     PATH.  47 

tion  and  the  smile  for  which  she  waited  were  at  last  se 
cured,  and  she  turned  half  reluctantly  to  leave  the  house. 

During  all  this  time,  Peter  Trimble,  with  a  respectful  ness 
for  which  he  was  not  notorious,  had  lingered  behind  the 
congregation,  and  allowed  them  to  precede  him  in  the  way 
homeward.  As  the  little  girl  left  the  door,  he  was  at  her 
side. 

Slightly  touching  her  arm,  as  if  he  imagined  that  he  was 
touching  the  most  costly  fabric,  he  said,  in  his  most  imper 
tinent  and  sly  way,  "  Some  folks  wear  good  clothes,  and 
some  folks  wear  poor  clothes.  Some  people's  fathers  are 
rich — Mid  some  ain't.  You  don't  remember  wThat  that  hood 
cost,  oPyou  ?  It's  beautiful,  it's — " 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  'long  off,  and  go  home,"  exclaimed 
Mary,  turning  upon  him,  her  eyes  flashing  with  anger. 

"  But,  Molly,  where  d'you  get  your  new  clothes  ?"  per 
sisted  Peter,  in  his  bantering  way. 

"  ISTone  of  your  business,  you  plague,"  replied  Mary,  in 
the  same  angry  voice. 

"Well, 'do  you  know  there's  been  several  things  missed 
from  the  clothes  lines  lately,  round  here  ?"  insinuated  the 
remorseless  Peter.  "  Some  people  lays  it  to  Injuns,  "and 
,  some  don't." 

"If  you  don't  let  me  alone,  I'll  go  back  and  tell  Mr. 
Pynchon,"  said  Mary,  stopping  firmly -in  the  path,  and 
looking  Peter  fiercely  in  the  face. 

"  Tell  him  of  what  ?"  inquired  Peter,  coolly.  "  What 
have  I  said?  Won't  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me 
what  I've  said  ?  I  hav'n't  said  anything.  I  only  said  some 
people  lays  it  to  Injuns  and  some  don't.  I  think  it's  wild 
cats." 

There  was  something  so  tormentingly  insulting  in  the 
last  insinuation,  that  Mary  involuntarily,  and  as  quick  as 
lightning,  struck  him  a  stinging  blow  in  his  face.  Peter, 
for  the  moment,  lost  his  temper,  and,  taking  the  girl  by  the 


48  THE     BAY     PATH. 

shoulder,  he  pitched  her  into  the  snow.  The  scream  which 
she  gave  as  she  fell  brought  the  family  to  the  window  at 
Mr.  Pynchon's  house,  and  a  beckoning  hand  called  Peter 
back,  while  Mary  ran,  crying  at  the  top  of  her  lungs,  to 
wards  home.  Peter  arrived  at  Mr.  Pynchon's,  and  was 
called  in,  as  he  expected  to  be.  His  cheek  was  still  red 
with  the  effect  of  Mary's  blow,  which  he  assured  the  family 
was  given  him  by  the  girl  in  return  for  his  politeness  in 
endeavoring  to  assist  her  to  rise,  after  she  had  accidentally 
fallen  in  the  snow. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  girl  has  a  temper  too  much  like  that 
of  her  father,"  remarked  Henry  Smith,  who,  with  jxis  wife, 
had  remained  in  the  house. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mary,  earnestly,  "  that  this  boy  has  not 
told  the  truth.  I  think  Mary  Woodcock  would  never  have 
struck  him  had  she  not  been  seriously  provoked." 

Peter  protested  his  innocence  in  a  tone  of  voice  that 
showed  that  his  tender  spirit  had  been  wounded  to  the 
quick  by  so  terrible  an  accusation.  At  this  moment,  the 
frugal  Sabbath  dinner  was  declared  to  be  in  readiness,  and 
he  was  told  to  remain  until  its  conclusion,  that  the  matter 
of  his  difficulty  with  the  little  girl  might  have  a  further 
examination. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  Woodcock  retired  for  to-day  ?" 
inquired  Ann  Smith  of  her  father,  as  they  sat  down  to 
dinner. 

"  I  suppose  that  he  did  not  like  the  text  which  Mr.  Moxon 
selected  for  his  discourse,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  The  carnal  mind  is  enmity  against  God,"  said  Henry 
Smith,  solemnly.  "  How  little  the  man  understands  that 
the  degree  of  offensiveness  which  God's  truth  possesses  for 
him  is  the  measure  of  his  own  iniquity,,and  of  his  need  to 
have  that  truth  enforced  upon  him.'  ifow  little  he  under 
stands  that  the  more  the  medicine  displeases  him,  the  more 
he  needs  it." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  49 

"  This  may  all  be  very  true,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  a  little  wisdom  is  necessary  in  choosing 
that  class  of  Bible  truths  for  Sabbath  themes  which  will  not 
drive  men  beyond  the  reach  of  any  truth." 

"All  Scripture  is  profitable,"  replied  the  son.  "The 
Word  of  God,  in  all  its  purity,  is  to  be  preached,  whether 
they  will  bear,  or  whether  they  will  forbear.  I  see  not  how 
a  man  of  God  can  consult  expediency  in  the  slightest  degree. 
His  duty  is  plain,  and  he  may  only  go  on  and  do  it,  and 
leave  the  result  with  God." 

Mr.  l^ichon  had  been  somewhat  in  the  habit  of  masking 
his  reaWpinions  and  sentiments  in  relation  to  many  import 
ant  subjects  while  in  the  presence  of  his  family,  because 
they  came  in  collision  with  the  prevailing  opinions  and 
sentiments  around  him.  He  felt  perhaps,  that  were  his 
family  to  think  as  freely  as  himself,  they  might  get  into 
difficulty  by  a  too  frank  expression  of  their  thoughts,  and 
he  possibly  shrank  from  the  responsibility  of  inflicting  upon 
them  the  doubts  and  disquietude  that  spring  from  conscious 
differences  with  a  prevalent  faith.  But  this  occasion  was 
too  important,  and  the  lesson  too  necessary,  to  be  neglected. 
Accordingly,  he  very  fully  gave  his  opinions  upon  the  sub 
ject  that  had  been  introduced. 

"The  office  of  the  Christian  minister,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon, 
"  I  regard  as  the  highest  and  the  noblest  which  a  man  can 
be  called  upon  to  assume.  The  minister  is  the  man  who 
stands  in  Christ's  stead,  beseeching  his  fellow  men  to  be 
reconciled  to  God.  He  is  also,  in  the  fullest  sense,  a  servant 
of  Christ — bound  to  adopt  his  policy,  to  be  filled  with  his 
spirit,  to  be  informed  and  inspired  with  his  life,  and  to 
overflow,  in  every  word  and  action,  with  that  love  to  all 
mankind  that  shall  lead  him  in  his  daily  social  intercourse, 
and  in  his  public  religious  duties,  to  choose  his  means  of 
grace  with  a  wisdom  and  an  unfailing  perception  of  adap- 
tedness  that  shall  render  impossible  all  serious  offence.  The 

3 


50  THEBAYPATH. 

minister  who  dwells  upon  some  favorite  dogma,  as  if  ita 
establishment  were  of  more  consequence  than  the  salvation 
of  a  soul ;  who  cares  more  for  the  maintenance  of  some 
point  of  opinion,  in  which  his  personal  pride  is  involved, 
than  the  maintenance  of  faith  in  some  trembling  believer ; 
who  does  not  study  every  heart  with  which  he  comes  in 
contact,  to  see  precisely  the  kind  of  spiritual  food  it  requires ; 
who  deals  out  his  store  of  threatenings  and  promises  .indis 
criminately  ;  or  worse — deals  out  threatenings  where  pro 
mises  were  better,  is  a  man  not  thoroughly  furnished  for  his 
position,  and  not  fitted  for  his  work.  My  opinion^  that  a 
minister,  perfectly  fitted  for  his  office,  never  offaPls,  and 
that,  if  he  have  any  positiveness  of  character,  the  number 
of  his  offensive  applications  of  truth  will  indicate  the  measure 
of  his  unfitness  for  his  office.  Men  with  the  common  share 
of  human  reason,  respect  earaestness,  honesty,  and  self- 
devotion,  wherever  they  see  it;  and  when  those  qualities 
are  united  with  an  all-comprehending  love  of  those  for 
whom  Christ  died,  that  shines  in  every  smile,  is  manifest  in 
every  action,  and  modulates  the  tone  of  every  utterance, 
sin  receives  its  rebuke  in  respectful  silence,  malice  melts  in 
meekness,  and  error,  pride,  and  even  bigotry's  self,  bow, 
for  the  moment  at  least,  to  an  influence  which  they  have 
neither  the  power  to  resist  nor  the  motive  to  resent." 

"I  believe  it — every  word  of  it,"  responded  Mary, 
modestly,' but  firmly. 

"  I  would  not  dispute  with  my  father,  certainly,"  said 
Henry  Smith,  who  recognised  parental  respect  as  a  Christian 
duty,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  virtually  apologizes  for 
John  Woodcock,  and  blames  Mr.  Moxon." 

"  And  I  will  not  dispute  with  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon, 
with  a  meaning  smile.  "  It  is  barely  possible  that  John 
Woodcock  is  not  naturally  so  bad  a  man  as  he  is  thought 
to  be,  and  that  Mr.  Moxon  has  made  a  mistake  in  his  treat 
ment  of  him." 


THE     HAT     PATH.  51 

"  Still,"  replied  the  son,  with  a  deferential  bow,  "  I  think 
it  is  our  duty  to  yield  our  assent  to  the  teachings  of  our 
ministers.  They  are  placed  in  the  church  to  watch  over  us 
in  matters  of  doctrine  and  duty,  and  while  it  is  their  duty 
to  be  faithful,  it  is  ours  to  yield  to  them  the  respect  due 
their  high  office." 

"  You  do  not  mean,  brother,"  said  Mary,  laughing,  "  that 
you  would  cheat  so  innocent  a  thing  as  an  office,  of  so  valuable 
a  thing  as  respect,by  paying  its  due  to  its  occupant,  do  you?" 

"  I  do  not  chop  logic  on  Sunday,"  replied  the  brother, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

During  the  progress  of  this  conversation,  Mrs..Pynchon 
had  been  exercised  in  a  somewhat  singular  manner.  She 
reverenced  her  husband,  but  loved  her  son,  aiid  she  saw  and 
very  thoroughly  apprehended  the  nature  of  their  difference. 
Therefore  with  a  wish  to  reconcile  their  views,  and  strike  a 
fair  balance  between  them,  she  had  arranged  her  ideas  for  a 
remark  or  two,  but,  by  a  perverse  misfortune,  they  became 
confused  before  she  had  fairly  commenced  their  utterance. 
"  I  think,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that  anybody  who  gets 
offended  with  a  good  gospel  sermon,  is  not  worth  minding 
anything  about.  I  don't  say  anything  against  Goodman 
Woodcock,  but  I  do  say  that  when  we've  got  a  good  minis 
ter,  we  ought  to — to  make  the  most  of  him"  (slightly  break 
ing  down)  "  especially — especially" — (losing  the  thread 
entirely)  "  as  we  pay  him  a  better  salary  than  we  can  afford, 
and  have  settled  the  ministry  lands  on  him." 

This  resolution  of  the  discussion  was  conclusive,  if  not 
satisfactory,  and  as  the  family 'drew  back  from  the  table, 
John  pointed  his  finger  to  the  window  and  exclaimed,  some 
what  excitedly,  "  There  comes  John  Woodcock,  father !" 

All  turned  their  eyes  in  the  direction  indicated.  He  came 
towards  the  house  with  a  lowering  brow,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  small  bundle  tied  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief.  He 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  was  admitted. 


52  THE     BAY    PATH. 

During  all  this  time,  Peter  Trimble  had  stood,  waiting  in 
the  room  the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  and  had  not  only  taken 
observation  of  everything  within  the  reach  of  his  active 
vision,  but  had  carefully  noted  and  remembered  the  nature 
and  bearing  of  the  conversation.  No  sooner  was  John 
Woodcock's  coming  announced,  however,  than  he  turned 
extremely  pale  in  the  face,  and  trembled  in  every  limb. 
Flight  was  not  feasible,  or  he  would  have  fled. 

As  Woodcock  entered  the«room,  he  walked  up  to  the  lad, 
planted  his  huge  hand  upon  his  trembling  head,  and,  gather 
ing  his  stiffly  curling  hair  within  the  grasp  of  his  fingers, 
turned  his  face  back  in  order  to  bring  it  to  a  projpr  angle 
of  observation.  The  tears  began  to  ooze  from  the  boy's 
eyes  as  if  Woodcock  were  wringing  water  from  his  hair,  or 
had  the  fountain  of  tears  directly  under  pressure. 

"  You  beautiful  feller,  you,"  said  Woodcock,  "  how  glad 
you  be  to  see  me!  Don't  know  when  I've  met  anybody  in 
some  time  that  was  so  overcome.  You  darlin'  boy !  You 
musn't  let  your  feelin'sget  the  start  of  you  in  this  'ere  way. 
You're  too  delicate  for  this  country.  P'raps  you  never 
heerd  of  a  little  roastin'  pig  that  went  squealin'  and  squealin* 
round,  and  stickin'  his  nose  into  children's  porringers,  and 
rootin'  up  people's  garden  patches,  till  the  butcher  thought 
he  was  too  tender  for  this  world,  and  accidentally  run  a 
knife  into  him,  did  you  ?  It's  awful  to  be  tender.  I've 
known  people  to  lose  all  the  hair  they  had  that  way." 

The  boy  had  withstood  the  torture  as  long  as  he  could, 
without  absolutely  bellowing  with  pain,  and  as  the  premoni 
tions  of  an  unpleasant  outcry  made  themselves  manifest, 
Woodcock  relaxed  his  grasp  upon  the  hair,  and,  looking 
him  in  the  face  a  moment  longer,  removed  his  hand,  and 
apologetically  expressed  the  hope  that  he  had  not  detained 
him  from  dinner,  or  interrupted  any  important  business. 
The  lad  needed  no  hint  from  any  quarter  to  induce  him  to 
retire,  and  the  moment  he  was  released  he  left  the  house. 


TUB     BAT     PATH.  53 

John  Pynchon  watched  him  with  a  not  ungratified  air,  as 
he  walked  homewards  jerking  his  head  with  a  half-rotary 
nod,  which  might  have  been  taken  as  an  expression  of  im 
potent  anger,  or  a  wish  to  ascertain  whether  that  organ  waa 
still  in  location. 

As  he  retired,  Woodcock  turned  to  the  family,  and,  with 
an  earnest  and  respectful  look,  which  was  somehow  tinged 
with  his  late  anger,  he  said,  "  I  beg  pardon  for  skinning  my 
eels  here,  but  I  thought  I'd  'tend  to  it,  'fore  they  slipped 
out  of  my  fingers.  I  didn't  come  here  to  do  it,  cause  I 
didn't  know  the  boy  was  here,  but  I'm  glad  it's  done  and 
over  with,  and  I  guess  he  is.  I  come  here  to  do  a  harder 
job.  I've  been  thinkin',  since  I  went  out  this  mornin',  that 
savin'  me  won't  hardly  pay,  when  you  come  to  take  it  all 
round — the  trouble  it's  costin'  others — and  the  trouble  it's 
costin'  me.  It's  so  natural  for  me  to  hate  a  mean  man,  and 
a  narrer  man,  that  I  know  I  never'd  learn  to  like  one  with 
out  gettin'  mean  and  narrer  myself.  Mr.  Moxon  and  I  can't 
hitch  bosses  together.  Come  to  tie  to  the  same  post, 
there'll  be  bitin'  and  kickin'." 

Mr.  Pynchon  suggested  that  perhaps  Woodcock  had 
better  sleep  upon  his  anger,  or  at  least  defer  what  he  might 
have  to  say  until  another  day. 

"  No,  Square,"  said  Woodcock,  "  you  musn't  choke  me 
off — let  me  go  through  this  time,  and  I  won't  bother  you 
again.  I  know  it  ain't  proper  Sunday  business,  but  I  want 
to  get  it  off  my  mind.  As  I  was  savin',  savin'  me  won't 
pay.  There  aint  but  one  way  to  do  if,  and  it  seems 's  'ough 
that  would  spile  me.  I  can't  give  up  hatin'  men  that  it  aint 
nater  to  love,  and  if  I  did  get  so  I  could  kind  o'  stand  'em, 
I  couldn't  foller  their  halter  nor  work  in  their  harness." 

The  family  listened  to  this  singular  demonstration  in 
silence.  Henry  Smith  sat  uneasily,  as  if  he  would  like  to 
argue  the  point,  and  as  if  he  deemed  it  the  duty  of  some 
one  to  do  it;  but  as  his  father  made  no  reply,  he  said 


54  THE     BAY     PATH. 

nothing.  No  one  except  the  favorite  daughter,  Mary,  had 
the  slightest  apprehension  of  the  impression  that  Wood 
cock  made  upon  Mr.  Pynchon.  This  apprehension  was 
vague,  as  it  must  have  been,  with  no  more  definite  com 
munication  between  them  than  that  borne  along  the  lines 
of  a  magnetic  sympathy,  but  it  was  none  the  less  real  for 
lacking  expression. 

The  truth  was,  that  Mr.  Pynchon  was  hardly  able  to 
speak.  He  saw  in  the  rough  man  before  him,  himself — the 
form  dwarfed,  the  face  distorted,  and  the  features  dimly 
defined,  perhaps,  as  if  the  mirror  were  an  agitated  pool  of 
turbid  water — but  still  true  to  the  essence  of  his  constitu 
tion,  and  the  outline  of  his  moral  conformation.  He  de 
spised  Woodcock's  vices,  he  lamented  his  perversity  of 
temper,  and  was  saddened  in  the  view  of  his  unchastened 
will ;  but  he  honored  the  frankness  of  his  nature,  and  that 
unbending  freedom  of  his  spirit,  which  led  him  to  feel  the 
touch  of  a  shackle  as  he  would  the  sting  of  a  viper,  and  to 
spurn  the  one  with  his  hand  as  he  would  the  other  with  his 
heel. 

Woodcock  waited  for  a  moment,  for  some  one  to  speak, 
but  as  every  one  remained  silent,  he  walked  up  to  where 
Mary  Pynchon  was  sitting,  and  untying,  tremblingly  and 
in  silence,  the  little  bundle  he  still  retained  in  his  hand,  he 
placed,  one  after  another,  in  her  lap,  the  articles  she  had 
given  to  his  daughter.  During  this  movement  he  had  not 
looked  in  her  face,  but  as  he*  concluded  it,  and  placed  his 
handkerchief  in  his  ppcket,  he  caught  a  vision  of  her  sad 
eyes,  brimming  with  tears. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Pynchon  !  Don't  cry,  and  don't 
think  I  ain't  human  to  fetch  back  these  things,  but  I  couldn't 
keep  'em.  It's  kind  to  the  gal  to  fetch  'em.  Everybody 
knows  where  they  come  from,  and  I've  just  had  to  pay  off 
one  little  runt  for  twittin'  her  about  it." 

"  You  pain  me  very  much,"  replied  Mary.  "  I  am  sure 


THEBAYPATU.  55 

you  are  over  sensitive  in  this  matter.  Besides,  your  daugh 
ter  really  needs  the  clothes." 

"  Well,  I  don't  dispute  it,  but  if  you  wont  say  anything 
about  it,  the  gal  shall  be  took  care  of.  She  shall  be  took 
care  of  for  you.  I  can't  take  these  duds  away  with  me,  so 
it's  no  use  talkin',  but  I'm  just  as  thankful  to  you  as  I  ever 
was,  and  love  your  good  heart  just  as  much." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  pleasantly,  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  your  excuse  for  depriving  your  daughter  of  comfort 
able  clothes  does  not  amount  to  much." 

"  Well,  Square,  if  I  must  tell  the  whole  on't,"  said  Wood 
cock,  straightening  up  desperately,  and  extending  his 
brawny  arm  for  an  emphatic  gesture,  "  I  don't  feel  in  fight- 
in'  trim  with  them  clothes  on  that  gal.  I  feel  as  if  an  angel 
had  got  a  mortgage  on  me,  and  I'm  afeared  she'll  foreclose 
some  time  when  it  ain't  convenient." 

No  one  could  withhold  a  smile  at  this  abrupt  and  charac 
teristic  conceit,  and  under  the  cover  of  the  smile  Woodcock 
retreated,  and  bent  his  steps  homeward,  leaving  Mary  gaz 
ing  downwards  upon  her  present,  thus  strangely  returned, 
and  busy  in  revolving  the  motive  that  bore  it  companion 
ship. 


CHAPTER    V. 

WOODCOCK'S  allusions  to  the  strangeness  of  his  child,  it 
will  have  been  seen,  were  not  infrequent,  in  his  conversa 
tions  with  others  concerning  her ;  and  it  has  already  been 
hinted  that  her  eccentricities  were  attributable  in  a  great 
degree  to  her  early  loss  of.  a  mother's  guidance,  and  her 
almost  exclusive  association  with  her  father  and  his  usually 
coarse  companions.  Some  weeks  had  passed  after  Wood 
cock  returned  to  Mary  Pynchon  the  clothes  she  had  given 
to  his  daughter,  when,  one  morning,  as  he  was  cutting  wood 
at  the  door,  he  heard  a  very  singular  noise  in  his  cabin. 
He  paused,  with  a  curious,  puzzled  air,  and  said  to  himself, 
in  a  low  tone,  "  What  in  Natur's  that  ?  Well !  she  has 
broke  out  in  a  new  place,  now  !"  As  he  stood,  waiting  for  a 
repetition  of  the  strange  sound,  his  ears  were  greeted  with 
a  well  executed  imitation  of  the  crow  of  a  .strong-lunged 
cock. 

"  What  has  got  into  that  critter  now  !"  exclaimed  Wood 
cock,  and  then,  dropping  his  axe,  he  assumed  an  unsuspi 
cious  face,  and  walked  into  his  cabin.  He  found  Mary  busy 
in  clearing  away,  and,  in  h.er  poor  manner,  washing  the  rude 
table  furniture  they  had  used  for  breakfast.  He  looked  at 
her  a  moment,  and,  in  a  kind  tone  of  voice,  said,  "  What  are 
you  thinkin'  about  this  mornin',  Mary  ?" 

"Peter  Trimble,"  replied  the  girl,  without  pausing  in  her 
operations. 

"  What  have  you  been  thinkin'  about  that  little — little — 
nimshi  ?"  inquired  the  father,  with  the  softest  appellation  of 
contempt  he  could  call  to  mind. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  57 

"  I  was  thinkin',"  said  Mary,  "  how  he  run  a  race  with 
Tim  Bristol  yesterday,  and  when  he'd  clipped  it  clean  by 
him,  how  he  jumped  on  to  a  stump,  and  crowed." 

"  And  so  you  tried  to  crow,  just  as  Peter  Trimble  crowed, 
did  you  ?"  said  the  father. 

"I?  no! — I  didn't  crow,"  replied  Mary,  pausing  in  her 
work,  and  looking  up  with  surprise. 

"  Not  then,  but  jest  now,  gal.  Jest  now  you  crowed, 
didn't  you  ?"  And  Woodcock  looked  at  her  encouragingly, 
as  if  he  would  have  said,  "  Own  up  noAv,  my  child,  I  won't 
hurt  you." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  to  me,"  said  the  girl,  grow 
ing  impatient. 

"  Now  don't  go  into  tantrums,  Mary,"  said  Woodcock 
dcprecatingly  ;  "  I  heerd  somebody  crow,  here,  in  this  'ere 
cabin,  and  thinks  I  to  myself  that's  the  gal,  a  tryin'  to  see 
what  she  can  do." 

"  I  wish  you'd  stop  tryin'  to  fool  me,"  said  the  girl  in  a 
sharp  tone,  her  temper  rapidly  rising. 

"  Well,  go  'long,  Mary,  go  'long,  I  guess  I  didn't  hear 
anything,"  said  Woodcock,  "  only  I  didn't  know  but  when 
you  was  thinkin'  how  Peter  Trimble  crowed,  you  jest  kind 
o'  tried  to  see  if  you  couldn't  do  jest  so — eh,  now  ?  Didn't 
you  do  it,  little  tinker  ?"  and  Woodcock  smiled,  with  an 
anxious,  distressed  smile,  that  was  meant  for  a  demonstra 
tion  of  persuasive  tenderness  and  amiability. 

At  this  moment,  Mary  was  holding  a  vessel  of  hot  water 
in  her  hands,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  dash  it,  with  all 
the  force  in  her  power,  upon  the  cabin  floor ;  but  she  finally 
set  it  down,  and  then  went  to  her  corner  at  the  fireplace, 
and,  throwing  herself  into  her  chair,  hid  her  face  in  her  lap, 
and  burst  into  her  usual  fit  of  crying  and  scolding. 

Woodcock  watched  her  for  a  few  minutes  with  emotions 
of  unmingled  pain.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her. 
She  seemed  at  times  to  be  insane,  and  to  say  and  do  things 

3* 


58-  THE     BAY     PATH. 

of  which  she  was  unconscious.  He  had  no  doubt  that  she 
had  been  in  a  waking  dream, — moving  in  past  scenes,  and 
amusing  herself  in  the  fields  of  memory,  while  engaged  in 
the  performance  of  the  light  household  duties  intrusted  to 
her  hands.  And  he  had,  within  a  few  weeks,  come  to 
regard  the  condition  of  her  mind  as,  in  some  manner,  con 
sequent  xipon  his  former  treatment  of  her,  and  the  hard,  un- 
childlike  lot  that  had  been  her  experience.  He  never  had 
forgotten  how  she  looked  when  she  came  from  the  sweet 
presence  of  Mary  Pynchon,  with  the  new  clothes  upon  her, 
and  the  new  and  altogether  unwonted  delight  on  her  face, 
and  the  joy  that  animated  every  motion  of  her  limbs.  She 
was  then  a  new  child  to  him,  and  he  would  have  given  any 
thing  in  his  power  to  make  that  transformation  permanent. 

Woodcock  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  and  allowed 
the  paroxysm  of  the  poor  child  to  subside,  and  then  said, 
"  Mary,  gal,  come  here  to  your  poor  old  father." 

Mary  looked  up,  and,  through  her  tears,  recognised  a 
look  of  thorough  kindness  bent  upon  her,  which  accorded 
with  the  strangely  sympathetic  tone  that  had  arrested  her 
attention.  Instantly  rising,  she  walked  to  her  father's  side, 
when,  taking  hold  of  her,  he  tried  to  lift  her  to  his  knee. 
The  fatherly  act  was  so  unusual  that  the  girl  shrank  from 
his  grasp,  and  stood  away  from  him,  to  see  what  he  meant. 
.  "  Oh,  Mary,  for  God's  sake  don't !"  exclaimed  her  father. 
"  Come  to  me,  and  set  with  me,  and  forget  all  those  old 
ugly  things  that  plague  you  so." 

Mary  was  assured,  and  was  soon  folded  tenderly  in  the 
rough  arms  of  her  father. 

"  I  want  to  talk,"  said  "Woodcock,  in  a  low  tone,  and  with 
his  head  bowed  kindly  down,  "  about  one  that's  gone.  Do 
you  remember  your  mother,  Mary  ?" 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  floor. 

"Your  mother,"   continued  Woodcock,"  was  a  clean, 


THE     BAT     PATH.  59 

sweet,  han'some  lookin'  woman,  and  she  had  as  good  a  heart 
as  ever  was ;  and  if  you  could  only  jest  think  how  her  eyes 
looked, — 't  seems 's  if  you  could  remember  'em  if  you  ever 
see  'em, — so  soft  and  lovin',  I've  got  a  consait  that  it  would 
bring  you  all  right.  Don't  you  see  them  eyes  a-lookin'  on 
you  sometimes,  Mary  ?  Can't  you  kind  o'  play  you're  little, 
and  remember  how  your  head  used  to  lay  on  her  arm, 
with  them  eyes — them  beautiful  eyes — shinin'  on  you  ?" 

Mary's  eyes  were  still  on  the  floor,  and  she  shook  her 
head  slowly  and  seriously. 

"  I'd  give  all  I've  got,  or  ever  goin'  to  have,  if  my  little 
gal  could  only  think  on  it.  Seems  's  if  it  would  start  her 
all  right  ag'in,  and  kind  o'  put  her  in  her  mother's  shoes, 
and  make  her  grow  up  good  and  han'some. 

"  Mary,  it  don't  seem  but  a  little  spell  ago  when  I  come 
home  one  night — it  was  twelve  long  years  ago,  but  it  don't 
seem  more'n  one,  and  'twas  'way  off  in  the  old  country — 
and  I  found  this  little  gal  in  bed  with  her  mother.  You  was 
a  leetle  thing  then,  as  soft  and  simple  as  a  young  robin,  but 
byme-by  you  begun  to  grow,  and  turn  up  your  black  eyes 
to  her'n,  and  laugh  in  her  sweet  face  till  she  cried  in  your'n. 
And  then  you'd  go  to  sleep,  with  your  cheek  right  up  agin 
her  soft  breast,  and  she  with  her  arms  round  you,  lovin'  you 
all  the  time.  And  when  you  got  older,  Mary,  and  could  tod 
dle  round,  and  we  begun  to  feed  you  on  the  nanny-goat's 
milk,  and  you  got  all  tuckered  out,  playin'  and  runnin'  out 
doors,  and  would  come  in  with  your  eyes  lookin'  as  heavy  as 
lead,  she  used  to  take  you  up  in  her  lap,  and  put  your  little 
head — littler  and  softer'n  'tis  now — in  her  bosom ;  and  there 
you  lay,  half  laughin'  in  your  sleep,  and  she  lovin'  you  all 
the  time." 

Woodcock  looked  down  to  see  whether  his  child  was 
interested,  and,  as  she  appeared  to  be  in  deep  thought,  he 
proceeded. 

"  And  so  we  all  lived  together  for  a  spell,  and  then  we 


60  THE     BAY     PATH. 

got  into  a  ship,  and  come  to  this  country.  'Twas  a  cruel 
time  for  all  on  us,  but  she  took  a  cold,  or  a  fever,  or  some- 
thin',  that  she  never  worked  clear  off;  and  she  kind  o' 
pined  and  pined  away,  workin'  all  the  time  for  you  and  me, 
till  all  at  once  she  give  it  up,  and  telled  me,  jest  as  patient 
and  pleasant,  she  was  goin'  to  die.  And  there  was  you 
runnin'  round,  not  knowin'  what  you  was  losin',  and  her  big, 
shiny  eyes  a-follerin'  you  round  the  room,  and  her  heart 
misgivin'  her  about  how  you  would  be  brung  up.  And 
when  her  breath  begun  to  come  short,  and  she  said  she  felt 
as  if  she  was  goin'  away,  she  wanted  I  should  fetch  you, 
and  I  picked  you  up  off'm  the  "floor,  and  laid  you  in  her 
arms,  and  put  'em  round  you,  and  your  mother  died,  Mary, 
with  her  arms  round  you — so — and  her  heart  lovin'  you  all 
the  time." 

Woodcock's  last  utterances  were  difficult  with  a  depth  of 
emotion  that  he  had  not  anticipated,  and  could  not  control ; 
and,  as  he  paused,  the  big  drops  were  falling  from  the  eyes 
of  his  daughter,  who  still  sat  with  her  gaze  upon  the  floor. 
The  whole  scene  was  a  new  experience  to  the  child,  and  her 
feeling  of  embarrassment  almost  equalled  in  strength  her 
interest  in  the  narrative. 

The  father  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  and  then  re 
sumed.  "  I  thought  that  if  I  telled  my  little  gal  of  all  this, 
and  she  could  only  make  it  seem  as  if  a  dear,  good  woman 
had  loved  her,  and  'tended  her,  and  that  she'd  been  the 
sweetest  thing  that  woman  had  in  the  world,  p'raps  she 
could  kind  o'  go  back,  and  make  a  new  start,  and  grow  up 
soft  and  gentle,  like  other  little  gals.  And  I  thought,  be 
sides,  if  she  could  only  see  them  eyes,  that  used  to  look  on 
her  so  sweet  and  lovin',  and  could  get  the  consait  that  they 
was  lookin'  on  her  all  the  time,  and  could  kind  o'  feel  them 
soft,  warm  arms  round  her,  night  and  day,  that  she'd  get 
gentle,  and  wouldn't  go  to  be  round  with  Peter  Trimble 
and  the  other  boys,  but  would  be  a  nice,  modest  little 


THE     BAY     PATH.  61 

gal.  Now,  Mary,  don't  them  eyes  never  come  to  you 
any  ?" 

The  girl  looked  up  in  her  father's  face  with  a  half  wild, 
half  serious  expression,  and  said,  "  Father,  I  know  them 
eyes  ;  I've  seen  'em." 

"  That's  right,  Mary.  Do  you  seem  to  see  'em  now  ?" 
and  Woodcock  regarded  her  with  an  encouraging  smile. 

"  No,  I  don't  see  'em  now.  I  never  see  'em  only  nights, 
when  I'm  asleep." 

Woodcock's  lip  quivered  as  he  inquired,  "  Why  can't 
you  see  'em  now  ?" 

"  'Cause  they  don't  come  now,"  replied  the  child,  with 
perfect  simplicity. 

"  Do  they  come,  as  you  say,  always  when  you  are 
asleep  ?"  inquired  Woodcock,  beginning  to  feel  distressed. 

"  No,"  replied  the  girl,  "  they  don't  come  always,  but 
only  when  you've  been  whippin'  me,  and  then  they  always 
come."  . 

Woodcock  started  with  a  pang  of  terrible  keenness,  and 
heaved  a  sigh  that  was  the  expression  of  the  profoundest 
pain. 

"  Then  you  haven't  seen  'em  lately,"  said  he. 

"  No,  I  haven't  seen  'em  since  you  took  away  the  clothes 
Miss  Pynchon  gave  me.  I  see  'em  then  all  night." 

This  declaration  caused  another  pang,  for  Woodcock  had 
not  failed  to  recognise  a  certain  degree  of  selfishness  and 
unnecessary  sensitiveness  of  will  on  his  own  part,  in  that 
transaction,  although  he  had  indulged  himself,  so  far  as 
possible,  in  the  idea  that  he  was  justified  by  his  motives. 

"  Well,  Mary,  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  whip  you  ag'in," 
said  Woodcock  ;  "  and  I  want  to  have  you  try  to  get  them 
eyes  back  without  the  whippin',  and  when  you  see  'em,  no 
matter  if  you're  sleepin'  or  wakin',  ask  'em  to  stay  with 
you,  and  perhaps  after  a  while  we'll  both  be  better,  and 
we  can  keep  the  consait  that  she's  always  in  the  cabin  with 


62  THE     BAY      PATH. 

us — and" — and  here  Woodcock,  whose  original  design  had 
been  seriously  interfered  with  by  the  little  girl's  revelations, 
went  off  into  a  disconnected  reverie,  during  which  Mary 
slid  from  his  arms,  and  resumed  the  occupation  from  which 
he  had  diverted  her. 

At  length,  half  muttering  to  himself,  iie  said,  "  I  can't  do 
nothin'  with  her,  as  I  see.  When  she's  wakin'  she's  sleepin', 
and  when  she's  sleepin'  she's  wakin' — dreamin'  when  she's 
thinkin',  and  thinkin'  when  she's  dreamin'.  Everything's 
botched,  somehow,  't  I've  anything  to  do  with, — all  mixed 
up  and  twisted.  I  can't  do  nothin'  right,  and  I  can't  fix 
nothin'  when't's  wrong.  But  the  gal's  growin'  up,  and  I 
must  look  after  her,  or  she'll  grow  up  to  be  no  comfort  to 
herself,  nor  me  neither." 

Then,  giving  expression  to  the  idea  that  the  world  was  a 
very  unsatisfactory  place  to  live  in,  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  was  about  to  open  his  door  for  the  purpose  of  resuming 
his  work  at  the  wood-pile,  when  a  hesitating  rap  came  upon 
the  outside.  Immediately  Woodcock  stood  confronting  with 
John  Cabel,  the  constable  of  the  settlement,  with  whom  he 
had  had  a  quarrel  and  a  suit  at  law,  growing  out  of  their 
joint  agency  in  the  erection  of  the  first  house  in  Agawam 
in  1635. 

"Well,  John  Cabel,"  said  Woodcock,  standing  in  his 
doorway,  without  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  enter, 
"  you  didn't  come  here  to  see  me  this  mornin'  'cause  you 
love  me,  so  out  with  it,  and  no  mincin'." 

Cabel  looked  into  the  face  of  his  old  companion,  now  his 
enemy,  and  inwardly  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity  of  paying 
off  a  long  score  of  revenges.  He  was  a  small  man,  with  a 
small  mind  and  infinite  resource  of  language,  sometimes 
spreading  little  turfs  of  thought  into  prairies  of  expression, 
and  capable  of  running  through  all  the  latitudes  of  diplomacy 
in  so  simple  a  mission  as  that  of  borrowing  a  peck  of  corn. 

In  a  tone  in  which  pity  was  intended  to  be  insultingly 


THE     BAT     PATH  63 

predominant,  Cabei  commenced  :  "  I'm  sorry,  John,  it  has 
come  to  this,  but  my  duty  as  an  officer  of  the  law  (the  last 
word  brought  out  strong,  and  enforced  with  six  confluent 
little  nods)  compels  me  to  do  that  which,  considering  you 
and  I  used  to  be  hand  and  glove  (emphasis  and  confluent 
nods),  that  is  to  say,  on  terms  of  intimacy  (and  John  Cabel 
coughed,  with  the  fore-finger  of  his  left  hand  on  the  right 
aspect  of  his  upper  lip  and  the  thumb  on  the  left,  and  with 
a  softness  that  showed  that  it  was  a  cherished  cough,  and 
not  intended  to  injure  his  lungs) — "  compels  me  to  do,  as  I 
was  remarking,  that  which,  under  other — that  is  to  say 
(emphasis  and  confluent  nods)  less  peculiar  circumstances, 
might  not  be  attended  with  the  degree  of  pain  which  I 
experience  on  this  occasion." 

And  John  Cabel  coughed  again,  with  his  left  thumb  and 
fore-finger  in  position,  and  the  palm  of  his  hand  so  spread, 
to  shield  his  mouth,  that  the  man  whom  he  addressed  could 
not  have  inhaled  from  his  breath  any  fatal  effects,  with  which, 
by  an  imaginary  possibility,  it  might  have  been  charged. 

"  Cabel,  now  what's  the  use  of  your  makin'  a  fool  of 
yourself?"  said  Woodcock,  regarding  him  with  a  look  of 
supreme  contempt.  "  If  you're  sick  to  the  stomach,  why 
don't  yoa  throw  up,  and  get  shet  o'  your  slobberin'  ?" 

Cabel  smiled,  coughed,  and  replied,  "  You  have  not  for 
gotten  hcrr  to  joke,  John,  and  it  reminds  me  of  other  days 
(emphasis  and  confluent  nods) — days  when  our  relations 
were  different;  that  is  to  say,  when  they  were  not  un 
pleasant.  They  have  been  somewhat  disturbed,  it  is  true, 
but  never  with  my  consent,  and  now,  to  be  obliged,  as  an 
officer  of  the  law  (emphasis,  &c.),  to  visit  your  house,  gives 
me  more  pain  than  I  can  conceal,  and — " 

"  Look  a-here,  Cabel,"  said  Woodcock,  "  if  you  don't 
empty  your  pail,  and  stop  spillin'  over  this  way,  I'll  give 
you  the  door  to  look  at,  and  you  may  call  me  when  you're 
all  ready." 


64  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Very  well,  John,"  said  Cabel,  changing  his  manner  at 
once,  "  I've  got  a  writ  for  ye,  which  tells  ye  to  come  before 
the  magistrate  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  slander  made  by 
Mr.  George  Moxon.  What  have  ye  got  to  say  to  that, 
eh?" 

"  Did  you  say  I'd  got  to  answer  to  the  magistrate  ?" 
inquired  Woodcock. 

"  The  magistrate,  of  course." 

"  Well,  mind  your  own  business  then,  you  beetle-head," 
said  Woodcock.  "  I'll  say  what  I've  got  to  say  when  the 
time  comes." 

Cabel  enjoyed  extremely  the  tone  of  irritation  with 
which  Woodcock  uttered  his  last  reply,  and  gave  himself 
gently  over  to  the  most  luxurious  cough  of  the  whole 
series. 

As  for  Woodcock,  this  new  annoyance  had  taken  him  at 
a  decided  disadvantage.  He  was  weak  with  the  softening 
influences  of  the  morning,  and  "  never  felt  so  little  up  to  a 
gruff,"  as  he  afterwards  expressed  it,  as  he  did  at  the  time 
he  met  Cabel.  He  had  begun  to  apprehend  more  and  more, 
that  Mary  was  suffering  from  his  own  reputation,  and,  for 
the  moment,  he  felt  as  if  he  would  rather  die  than  engage 
in  another  quarrel  which  would  tend  to  make  him,  and  the 
one  being  associated  with  him,  subjects  of  renewed  unplea 
sant  comment  in  the  plantation. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  something  like  dejection  in  his  air 
and  feelings  that  he  threw  the  accustomed  wolf  skin  over 
his  shoulders,  and  prepared  to  accompany  Cabel  to  the 
house  of  the  magistrate. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  plantation,  and  for  many  years, 
all  cases  tried  before  Mr.  Pynchon  were  tried  by  a  jury  of 
six  men,  and  were  but  irregularly  managed  at  the  best. 
Owing  to  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  place — the  lack 
of  a  prison,  and  the  ordinary  means  of  enforcing  law — legal 
processes  frequently  exhibited  a  mixed  character  and  were 


THE     BAY     PATH.  65 

at  the  same  tim^,  and  in  the  same  case,  civil,  ecclesiastical, 
and  criminal. 

When  Woodcock  arrived  at  the  house,  he  found  that  Mr. 
Moxon  and  the  constable  had  arranged  matters  so  as  not  to 
delay  the  course  of  justice  by  the  escape  of  an  unnecessary 
minute,  for  the  six  jurymen  were  in  the  house,  as  well  as  in 
their  seats.  As  he  walked  into  the  house,  he  bowed  stiffly 
to  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  fixed  a  surly  gaze  upon  Mr.  Moxon, 
who,  on  not  obtaining  any  motion  of  obeisance,  turned  his 
eyes  in  another  direction. 

"I'm  all  ready,  Square,"  said  Woodcock;  "shall  I  set 
down  or  stand  up  ?" 

"You  will  stand,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  "until  you  have 
heard  the  charge  read  on  which  you  have  been  summoned 
before  me." 

Mr.  Pynchon  then  read  the  charge,  which  (without  going 
into  its  formalities)  represented  that  Mr.  Moxon,  having 
been  called  upon  while  in  Hartford  to  testify  in  regard  to 
the  moral  and  business  character  of  Woodcock,  had  felt 
obliged,  from  what  he  knew  of  him,  to  testify  against  him ; 
and  that,  in  consequence,  Woodcock  had  charged  him  with 
taking  a  false  oath,  in  repeated  conversations  with  different 
members  of  the  plantation.  After  he  had  concluded,  he 
asked  him  whether  he  pleaded  "guilty"  or  "not  guilty" 
to  the  charge  of  slander,  in  connexion  with  these  represen 
tations. 

"  Well,  Square,  I  aint  guilty  of  anything,  as  I  know  of," 
said  Woodcock.  "  I  don't  consider  it's  guilty —  " 

"Prevarication,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  with  a  nod  at  Mr. 
Pynchon.  v« 

"  No,  'tisn't  prevarication,  neither,"  said  Woodcock,  turn 
ing  to  MK  Moxon.  "  It'll  be  time  enough  for  me  to  borry 
your  jack-knife  when  I've  got  whittlin'  on  hand  I  can't  do 
with  my  own." 

The  mistake  which  Woodcock's  ignorance  ol  language 


66  THEBAYPATH. 

had  led  him  into  was  sufficiently  ludicrous  to  draw  a  smile 
upon  the  faces  of  all  present,  and  he  thus  escaped  a  repri 
mand.  The  smile,  however,  weak  as  it  was,  was  sufficiently 
strong  to  restore  him  to  himself,  and  to  harden  him  for  the 
time  into  the  man  he  had  long  been  in  reality  and  repu 
tation. 

"  What  do  I  understand  your  plea  to  be  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Pynchon. 

"  Not  guilty !"  exclaimed  Woodcock,  in  a  stiff,  stern 
voice,  and  then,  tossing  his  wolf  skin  over  a  chair,  he  sat 
down. 

When  the  names  of  the  witnesses  were  called,  three  of 
those  on  the  jury  of  six  arose  and  were  sworn  with  the 
rest. 

"  Will  your  Honor  'low  me  to  say  a  word  ?"  said  Wood 
cock,  rising. 

"  Certainly,  if  relating  to  the  case,"  replied  the  magis 
trate. 

"  Well,  I  was  thinkin'  that  if  you'd  jest  let  these  men 
that  don't  seem  to  know  anything  about  the  case  go,  and 
put  the  rest  of  the  witnesses  in  their  seats,  you'd  save  time, 
and  wouldn't  have  to  pump  any  of 'em,  'cause  they'd  know 
all  they  could  tell,  and  could  tell  all  they  know  to  one 
another.  I  thought  I'd  jest  hint  it  to  you,  Square,"  con 
tinued  Woodcock,  preparing  to  sit  down,  "  for  it's  all  the 
same  to  me  who's  on  the  jury."* 

*  The  following  is  an  extract  from  the  record  of  this  trial  in  the 
Pynchon  Record  Book. 

"  George  Moxon  complained  against  Jo.  Woodcock  in  an  action  of 
Blander,  in  that  he  saith  that  Jo.  Woodcock  doth  report  that  he  took  a 
false  oath  against  him  at  Hartford,  and  he  demands  of  Jo.  Woodcock 
for  the  said  slander  £9,  19s. 

"  The  Jury.  Henry  Smith,  Jeheu  Burr,  Robert  Ashley,  Thomas 
Merik,  Jo.  Searle,  Samuel  Hubbard. 

"Mr.  Moxon  produced  these  witnesses:  Tho.  Horton,  Jo.  Cable, 
Robert  Ashley,  Henry  Smith,  Samuel  Hubbard." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  67 

"  Goodman  Woodcock,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  in  a  firm  but 
pleasant  tone,  "it  is  apparent  from  this  remark  that  you 
intend  to  complain  of  injustice  in  connexion  with  your  trial. 
I  had  hoped  to  find  you  this  morning  in  a  more  candid  and 
penitent  frame  of  mind, — one  which  should  lead  you  to 
doubt  neither  our  charity  for  you  nor  the  honesty  of  our 
judgments  in  establishing  justice  between  you  and  Mr. 
Moxon.  You  are  accused  of  a  grave  offence.  You  are 
charged  with  having  proclaimed  your  minister  to  be  guilty 
of  the  heinous  sin  of  perjury.  If  the  charge  shall  not  be 
sustained,  it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  congratulate 
you  on  having  freed  yourself  from  an  accusation  that,  to 
my  mind,  involves  one  of  the  most  heartless  and  cruel 
crimes  of  which  a  man  can  be  guilty  ;  for  there  is  hardly  a 
crime  that  I  consider  so  foul  as  that  which  tampers  with  a 
good  man's  good  name.  It  is  a  crime  that  is  the  basis 
of  nearly  all  the  troubles  in  this  and  the  other  plantations 
of  the  colony,  and  one  which  I  am  determined  shall  be 
punished,  so  far  as  my  power  and  influence  go,  in  the  man 
ner  it  deserves." 

Woodcock  sat  regarding  the  magistrate's  words  and 
manner  most  intently,  and  when  he  closed,  he  rose  respect 
fully,  and,  fixing  his  eye  fully  on  the  eye  of  Mr.  Pynchon, 
said,  "  I  don't  misdoubt,  Square,  but  what  you  mean  all 
you  say,  and  I  don't  say  but  what  it's  all  right,  take  it  by 
and  large,  but  I  was  wonderin'  whether  you'd  a'  said  it  if 
I'd  been  in  the  minister's  boots,  and  he  in  mine." 

Mr.  Moxon  was  instantly  on  his  feet,  and  pointing  his 
finger  at  Woodcock,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  authorita 
tive  menace,  "  Take  heed  !  take  heed !" 

"  And  I  wonder,"  said  Woodcock,  shifting  his  eyes  from 
the  magistrate  to  the  minister,  without  changing  his  voice, 
"  if  you'd  a'  stood  my  p'intin'  to  that  man,  and  hollerin'  out 
as  he  done  jest  now." 

Mr.  Pynchon  reddened  in  the  face,  and  replied,  "  I  have 


68  THE     BAY     PATH. 

no  words  to  bandy  with  you,  Woodcock.  The  trial  will 
proceed." 

The  witnesses  were  examined,  one  after  another,  by  Mr. 
Moxon  and  the  magistrate,  and  the  evidence  was  conclusive 
against  the  accused.  He  had  charged  Mr.  Moxon  openly 
and  boldly,  with  taking  a  false  oath  against  him ;  and  not  a 
doubt  remained  on  the  mind  of  any  one,  in  relation  to  the 
fact. 

At  the  close  of  the  testimony,  Mr.  Pynchon  addressed 
Woodcock,  telling  him  that  he  had  heard  the  evidence 
which  had  been  placed  before  the  jury,  and  could  not  but 
be  aware  of  its  character ;  and  that  if  he  had  anything  to 
say  before  they  should  bring  in  their  verdict,  and  would 
say  it  with  proper  respect  to  the  court  and  the  reverend 
plaintiff,  he  could  now  have  the  opportunity. 

Woodcock  sat  a  few  moments  in  silence  and  study,  and 
then,  rising,  said :  "  You  know,  Square,  my  tongue  aint 
a  smooth  one,  and  I  don't  know  how  I  should  make  out, 
tryin'  to  foller  the  marks,  but  I'll  say  what  I  think's  right, 
and  you  can  stop  me  when  I  get  off'm  the  trail.  I'm  satis- 
fied  with  what  these  folks  have  said,  and  I  could  a'  saved 
'em  the  trouble  of  sayin'  anything,  but  I  kind  o'  wanted  to 
see  how  straight  they'd  tell  their  stories.  They've  gone 
through  'em  pretty  well,  and  now  I'd  like  to  tell  what  I 
meant  when  I  was  talkin'  about  bein'  guilty,  just  as  the 
minister  run  into  me.  'Tain't  very  comfortable  for  a  feller 
to  think  he  haint  got  a  good  character ;  and  when  he 
catches  another  feller  swearin'  it  away,  it's  natur  to  hang  on 
to  it.  I  didn't  consider  it  guilty  to  hang  on  to  mine,  and 
that  was  what  I  was  tryin'  to  get  off.  In  this  'ere  case, 
I've  tried  to*  show  proper  respect  to  the  minister.  I've 
only  said  he  shot  too  fa"r  to  the  left  to  hit  the  truth,  when 
if  he'd  been  John  Cabel  that  had  done  it,  or  any  other  thin 
strip  of  a  man,  I  should  a'  laid  him  down,  and  stomped  on 
him." 


^  HE     BAY     PATH.  69 

Here  Woodcock  was  interrupted  by  an 'excited  motion 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Moxon,  who  half  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
who,  failing  to  command  the  eye  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  settled 
uneasily  back  into  his  chair  again.  As  for  Cabel,  he  re 
lapsed  into  a  cough,  as  satisfactory  to  himself  as  it  was  full 
of  provocation  to  Woodcock,  who,  seeing  that  he  might 
proceed,  resumed  his  remarks. 

"  As  I  was  sayin',  Square,  I've  tried  to  show  respect  to 
the  minister,  but  I  don't  see  what  it's  all  for.  I've  been  in 
the  colony  half-a-dozen  years,  more  or  less,  and  done  as 
much  work  as  any  other  man  of  my  size.  I  marked  the 
trees  clean  from  Roxbury  to  this  plantation,  and  put  up  the 
fust  cabin  here,  with  a  little  help  from  a  poor  feller  (looking 
at  Cabel)  that's  now  bad  with  the  heaves ;  and  I've  been 
crowded  and  knocked  round,  and  I've  paid  rates  and  been 
made  to  walk  the  colony  crack ;  and  all  the  time  I  couldn't 
be  a  freeman  and  vote,  'cause  I  wan't  a  member  of  the 
church.  I  hain't  been  anything,  'cause  the  ministers 
wouldn't  let  me.  I  have  to  help  support  'em,  and  live 
under  their  laws,  and  when  they  take  a  notion  to  swear 
away  my  character,  I  mustn't  kick ;  if  I  do,  the  constable 
grabs  my  foot,  and  ties  it  up  to  the  jury-box. 

"  P'raps  I  ain't  talkin'  very  close  to  the  mark,"  continued 
Woodcock,  recalling  himself,  "  and  I'll  come  back,  and  take 
the  track  agin.  Mr.  Moxon  thinks  I've  damaged  him  nine 
pound,  nineteen  shillin',  which  't  seems  to  me  don't  tally 
with  his  swearin'  down  to  Hartford.  I'm  better'n  he  swore 
I  was,  or  else  his  character's  weaker'n  he  thinks  'tis,  or  else 
I  hav'n't  damaged  him  so  much  as  he's  tried  to  make  out. 
If  my  character  wan't  good  for  anything,  I  couldn't  hurt 
him,  and  if  his  character's  weak  enough  to  be  hurt  by  such 
a  man  as  he  says  I  be,  then  he's  no  business  to  growl,  and 
talk  about  money.  It's  a  good  brew  that  bursts  the  barrel, 
and  a  broken  egg  that  spiles  easy." 

"I  protest,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Moxon,  suddenly  and  ex- 


70  THEBAYPATH. 

citedly  rising — "  I  protest  against  being  made  the  butt  of 
this  fellow's  vulgar  jests.  I  have  as  much  respect,  may  it 
please  your  Honor,  as  any  one  can  have,  for  the  rights 
of  a  man  on  trial  for  a  grave  offence  against  the  laws, 
but  I  am  not  called  upon  to  submit  to  the  inflictions  of  his 
revengeful  spleen.  I  claim  the  protection  of  the  court." 

"Woodcock,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon  gravely,  "you  have 
forfeited  your  promise,  and  spoken  disrespectfully  towards 
the  court  and  the  plaintiff." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  interrupted  Woodcock,  afraid  that  Mr. 
Pynchon  was  about  to  silence  him,  "  but  I  meant  no  offence. 
The  j'int  fitted  middlin'  well,  but  the  stick  wan't  hewed 
smooth.  I  hope  you  won't  set  me  down  till  I've  had  it  out, 
and  can  feel  easy.  This  'ere  jury's  goin'  to  say  whether  I 
owe  Mr.  Moxon  anything  or  not.  I've  paid  my  part,  since 
I've  been  in  the  settlement,  to  give  Mr.  Moxon  porridge, 
and  salt  to  put  into  it.  My  rates  are  all  square,  if  I  have 
had  a  hard  time  here;  and  what  did  I  ever  get  for't? 
Nothin'  but  blowin's — sometimes  right  afore  my  child, 
sometimes  right  afore  a  whole  meetin' ;  and  then  he  goes 
to  Hartford,  and  swears  away  my  character,  and  'cause  I 
don't  knuckle,  and  'low  him  to  tread  me  down,  he  brings 
me  here  to  get  money  out  on  me,  over  and  above  the  rates 
that  bring  me  nothin'  but  cusses.  I  don't  owe  him — " 

"  I  protest,"  said  Mr.  Moxon. 

"  Sit  down,  Woodcock,"  said  the  magistrate. 

Woodcock  very  reluctantly  undertook  obedience  to  the 
command,  but  before  he  touched  his  seat,  he  rallied  doubt 
fully,  and  said,  "Square,  if  you'll  give  me  three  words 
more,  I  won't  'fend  you,  my  word  for't.  I  jest  wanted  to 
say  that  there's  been  considerable  fuss  made,  fust  and  last, 
about  makin'  me  a  better  man,  and  I  thought  if  the  jury 
was  goin'  out,  and  was  good  in  figures,  I  sh'd  like  to  have 
'em  find  how  long  it  would  take  to  make  a  Christian  of  me 
in  this  way,  and  about  what  it'll  cost." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  71 

Having  finished  to  his  satisfaction,  Woodcock  wiped  his 
forehead  with  a  dirty  handkerchief,  threw  his  coat  open  as 
if  he  had  made  a  hard  physical  effort,  and  sat  down. 

"  This  case,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  might  be  safely  left  t<? 
the  jury  without  any  remarks  from  me,  but  it  involves 
important  consequences,  and  demands  a  few  words,  espe 
cially  as  the  magistracy  of  this  settlement  has  but  recently 
been  established.  The  plaintiff  in  this  case  is  the  minister 
of  the  church  in  our  own  plantation,  one  whom  you  know 
as  a  godly  man,  and  an  approved  teacher  of  the  truth  in 
Christ.  His  is  a  holy  office,  a  mighty  responsibility,  an 
unspeakably  sacred  work  ;  and  it  is  necessary  to  his  useful 
ness  that  his  name  be  preserved  free  from  reproach.  I  do 
not  decide,  nor  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  decide,  whether 
Mr.  Moxon  had  sufficient  ground  for  the  testimony  which 
he  gave  at  Hartford  against  Goodman  Woodcock.  I  do 
not  propose  to  say  whether  I  think  that  he  has  treated 
Woodcock  in  all  points  as  he  should  have  done.  In  these 
matters,  to  his  own  master  he  standeth  or  falleth,  and 
neither  you  nor  I  have  aught  to  question  or  affirm  touching 
them.  The  testimony  establishes  the  fact  that  Woodcock 
has  circulated  among  the  people  of  the  settlement  the  story 
that  their  minister  has  foully  perjured  himself.  Of  this  you 
can  have  no  doubt,  independently  of  the  confession  of  the 
defendant  himself.  In  this  thing,  he  has  sinned  against  the 
ministry  as  well  as  the  minister,  wounded  the  cause  of 
Christ,  and  done  violence  to  that  order  and  that  dignity  of 
office  which  are  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  Christian 
society.  In  assessing  the  damages,  you  will  have  reference 
as  well  to  their  effect  upon  the  defendant  as  upon  the 
plaintiff,  and  be  guided  by  the  pecuniary  circumstances  of 
the  defendant  to  a  certain  extent.  Large  damages  could 
not  be  collected,  and  if  they  could  be,  the  effect  upon  him 
would  be  what  no  one  wishes  for,  while  I  am  sure  the  plain 
tiff  would  regret  the  possession  of  money  that  would 


72  THEBAYPATH. 

place  the  soul  of  any  man  in  jeopardy.  You  will  now 
retire — " 

"  Square,"  said  Woodcock,  rising  hurriedly  from  his 
4?hair,  "  afore  the  jury  go,  I  sh'd  like  to  put  a  question  or 
two,  to  some  of  the  witnesses  that's  been  up." 

"  This  is  a  very  unusual,  not  to  say  disorderly  request," 
said  the  magistrate. 

"  I  know't's  oif'm  the  trail,  but  the  fact  is,  this  case  has 
swum  a  pond  since  you  begun  talkin'.  I  didn't  think  you'd 
go  agin  me  so  hard,  though  I  don't  think  the  other  side's 
anything  to  brag  on." 

"  Whom  do  you  wish  to  call  again  ?"  inquired  the  ma 
gistrate. 

"  John  Cabel,  and  p'raps  some  of  the  jury,  if  you'll  be  so 
kind,"  replied  Woodcock,  "  though  I  ain't  goin'  to  dodge, 
if  you  do  hit  without  heai'in'." 

Mr.  Moxon  had  not  exactly  liked  certain  portions  of  Mr. 
Pynchon's  remarks,  but  he  felt  sure  of  his  case,  and  so  did 
not  interfere  with  the  proceedings.  Mr.  Pynchon  called 
Henry  Smith  to  his  side,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  indistinct 
conversation,  told  Woodcock  that  he  could  have  liberty  to 
question  Cabel. 

"  Get  up,  Cabel,"  said  Woodcock,  turning  sharply  to  that 
official. 

Cabel  turned  a  mute  look  of  appeal  to  the  magistrate, 
who  said,  "  You  will  rise,  Cabel,  and  the  defendant  will 
address  you  respectfully." 

"  John  Cabel,"  said  Woodcock,  "  who  telled  me  that 
Mr.  Moxon  swore  agin  me  in  Hartford  ?  Now  none  o' 
your  dodgin'  nor  spreadin'." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Cabel,  indulging  in  a  short  cough, 
"  that  that  is  a  remarkable,  that  is  to  say,  a  very  singular 
question  for  one  to  ask,  who  should  know  without  asking. 
You  are  aware  that  I  have  had  very  little  association  with 
you  of  late  (a  long  quiet  cough),  and  that  I  could  not  have 


THE     BAY     PATH.  73 

a  very  thorough  knowledge  of  your  sources,  that  is  to  say, 
your  means  of  information." 

"  You're  a  sweet  nut  anyway,"  said  Woodcock,  with  a 
smile  that  was  half  scowl.  "  Don't  you  know,  as  well  as 
you  want  to  know,  that  you  told  me  yourself?" 

Cabel  looked  at  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  that  gentleman  settled 
the  matter  by  saying  very  peremptorily,  "  Yes,  or  No,  to 
that  question,  Cabel." 

"  Yes." 

"  All  right,"  said  Woodcock.  "  Now,  did  you  ax  me  what 
I'd  got  to  say  to  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  or  no,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  what  did  I  say  ?" 

"  You  said,"  replied  Cabel,  without  any  urging,  "  that 
Mr.  Moxon  had  sworn  to  a  lie."  (Emphasis,  &c.) 

"  That's  true,"  said  Woodcock,  *'  and  now  you  may  set 
down,  and  if  we  wa'nt  here,  afore  these  gentlemen,  and  you 
was  a  brother  of  mine,  which  I'm  thankful  you  ain't,  I  sh'd 
say,  if  you  sleep  on  marish  hay,  you'd  better  shift  your  bed, 
for  it's  bad  for  your  pipes." 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  Woodcock,  immediately  turning  to 
Henry  Smith,  at  the  head  of  the  jury,  "who  tolled  you  that 
I  said  Mr.  Moxon  took  a  false  oath  agin  me  ?" 

"  John  Cabel,"  replied  Mr.  Smith. 

"  What  made  me  tell  you  jest  the  same  thing  over  agin?" 
inquired  Woodcock. 

"  The  occasion,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  rubbing  his 
chin  to  help  his  memory,  "  was  my  inquiry  of  you  whether 
Cabel  had  represented  the  truth." 

"  That's  all,"  said  Woodcock,  rising ;  "  I  jest  wanted  Mr. 
Pynchon  to  see  how  I  come  to  say  what  I  did,  and  to  ax 
him  whether  he  thinks  it  would  'a  been  natur'  for  me  to 
own  up  that  my  character  was  bad,  or  keep  mum,  which  was 
tantamount  to  the  same  thing ;  and  I  wanted  to  show  him 

4 


74  THE     BAY      PATH. 

how  the  story  got  to  me,  and  got  spread  up  and  down  the 
plantation.  Mind,  I  don't  take  nothin'  back,  but  I  wanted 
to  fetch  out  who  planted  the  corn,  and  how  I  come  to  hoe  it." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  hi  your  minds,"  said  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon,  turning  to  the  jury,  "that  these  are  mitigating  cir 
cumstances,  and  you  will  give  the  defendant  the  benefit  of 
them  in  your  assessment  of  damages." 

The  jury  retired  to  an  adjoining  apartment,  and  occupied 
but  a  short  time  in  coming  to  their  decision,  which  was 
arrived  at  by  a  vote  to  award  Mr.  Moxon,  as  damages,  the 
mean  average  of  the  individual  estimates  of  the  jury. 

As  they  returned  and  resumed  their  seats,  Mr.  Pynchon 
pronounced  the  inquiry,  "What  do  the  jury  find?" 

Henry  Smith  arose,  and  replied,  "  The  jury  find  for  the 
plaintiff,  damages,  £6  13s.  4of." 

"  Well,"  said  Woodcock,  rising,  with  a  mingled  expres 
sion  of  anger  and  disgust  upon  his  rough  features,  "I'm  glad 
you've  found  the  damages  and  found  the  money  with  'em, 
for  you've  done  a  smart  thing,  and  saved  me  considerable 
elbow  grease  besides." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  remark?"  said  Mr.  Pynchon 
sternly. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Woodcock,  with  a  scowl  of  contempt  and 
defiance,  "  that  when  Mr.  Moxon's  broth  tastes  like  Wood 
cock,  it  won't  be  till  after  I've  died  game,  and  he's  lame  and 
lost  his  eyesight." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir,"  inquired  the  ma-, 
gistrate  again. 

"  Well,  Square,  my  meanin'  don't  lay  very  fur  under  the 
skin,  but  I  s'pose  I  can  fetch  it  out,  if  you  say  so.  I  don't 
mean  nothin'  more  nor  less  than  that  I  don't  owe  the  minis 
ter  any  money,  and  I  shan't  pay  him  no  money.'' 

Having  very  emphatically  pronounced  his  decision,  and 
conveyed  a  look  of  menace  to  John  Cabel,  who  gave  ex 
pression  to  a  sudden  sense  of  discretion  in  a  cough  which 


THE     BAY     PATH.  *75 

conveyed  him,  by  easy  stages,  inlo  semi-unconsciousness, 
Woodcock,  whose  last  movements  had  tended  towards  the 
door,  lifted  the  latch,  and  passed  unmolested  on  his  way 
homewards. 

His  departure  was  followed  by  a  long  consultation.  Mr. 
Pynchon  felt  that  his  authority  had  been  slighted,  and  with 
good  reason  ;  Mr.  Moxon  was  dissatisfied  with  'the  amount 
of  damages  awarded  him,  and  incensed  at  Woodcock's  re 
peated  insults  and  insolent  defiance  ;  the  jury  were  ofiended 
that  Woodcock  had  spurned  their  judgment ;  and*  Cabel, 
who  insisted  at  great  length  that  he  knew  John  Woodcock 
through  and  through,  declared  that  the  monster  had  as 
good  as  threatened  his  life. 

"  There  is  no  way,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  at  last,  "  but  to 
drive  him  from  the  settlement.  No  order  can  be  maintained 
with  such  a  man  amongst  us.  He  must  leave  the  plantation, 
or  he  will  destroy  it." 

And  the  majority,  as  they  separated,  were  of  his  opinion. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  winter  during  which  these  events  occurred  was  long 
and  severe — so  severe  as  to  give  rise,  among  all  the  settle 
ments  ^>n  the  Connecticut,  to  serious  apprehensions  of  scar 
city  of  food.  As  a  consequence,  the  opening  of  spring  was 
hailed  with  unusual  joy.  To  augment  this  joy  the  people 
of  Agawam  had  received  advices  from  the  Bay  that  a  few 
more  families  had  decided  to  adventure  their  fortunes 
among  them. 

The  principal  communication  with  the  Eastern  settle 
ments  was  by  a  path  marked  by  trees  a  portion  of  the  dis 
tance,  and  by  slight  clearings  of  brush  and  thicket  for  the 
remainder.  No  stream  was  bridged,  no  hill  graded,  and 
no  marsh  drained.  The  path  led  through  woods  which 
bore  the  marks  of  the  centuries,  over  barren  hills  that  had 
been  licked  by  the  Indians'  hounds  of  fire,  and  along  the 
banks  of  streams  that  the  seine  had  never  dragged.  This 
path  was  known  as  "  the  Bay  Path,"  or  the  path  to  the 
Bay,  and  received  its  name  in  the  same  manner  as  the  mul 
titudinous  "  old  Bay  roads"  that  lead  to  Boston  from  every 
quarter  of  Massachusetts. 

It  was  wonderful  what  a  powerful  interest  was  attached 
to  the  Bay  Path.  It  was  the  channel  through  which  laws 
were  communicated,  through  which  flowed  news  from  dis 
tant  friends,  and  through  which  came  long,  loving  letters 
and  messages.  It  was  the  vaulted  passage  along  which 
echoed  the  voices  that  called  from  across  the  ocean,  and 
through  which,  like  low-toned  thunder,  rolled  the  din  of 
the  great  world.  That  rough  thread  of  soil,  chopped  by 


THE     BAY     PATH.  77 

the  blades  of  a  hundred  streams,  was  a  bond  that  radiated 
at  each  terminus  into  a  thousand  fibres  of  love  and  interest, 
and  hope  and  memory.  It  was  the  one  way  left  open 
through  which  the  sweet  tide  of  sympathy  might  flow. 
Every  rod  had  been  prayed  over,  by  friends  on  the  journey 
and  friends  at  home.  If  every  traveller  had  raised  his 
Ebenezer,  as  the  morning  dawned  upon  his  trusting  sleep, 
the  monuments  would  have  risen  and  stood  like  milestones. 

But  it  was  also  associated  with  fears,  and  the  imagination 
often  clothed  it  with  terrors  of  which  experience  and  obser 
vation  had  furnished  only  sparsely-scattered  hints.  The 
boy,  as  he  heard  the  stories  of  the  Path,  went  slowly  to 
bed,  and  dreamed  of  lithe  wildcats,  squatted  stealthily  on 
overhanging  limbs,  of  the  long  leap  through  the  air  upon 
the  doomed  horseman,  and  the  terrible  death  in  the  woods. 
Or,  in  the  midnight  camp,  he  heard  through  the  low  forest 
arches — crushed  down  by  the  weight  of  the  darkness — the 
long  drawn  howl  of  the  hungry  wolf.  Or,  sleeping  in  his 
tent  or  by  his  fire,  he  was  awakened  by  the  crackling 
sticks,  and,  lying  breathless,  heard  a  lonely  bear,  as  he 
snuffed  and  grunted  about  his  ears.  Or,  riding  along 
blithely,  and  thinking  of  no  danger,  a  band  of  straying 
Pequots  arose,  with  swift  arrows,  to  avenge  the  massacre 
of  their  kindred. 

The  Bay  Path  was  charmed  ground — a  precious  passage 
— and  during  the  spring,  the  summer,  and  the  early  autumn, 
hardly  a  settler  at  Agawam  went  out  of  doors,  or  changed 
his  position  in  the  fields,  or  looked  up  from  his  labor,  or 
rested  on  his  oars  upon  the  bosom  of  the  river,  without 
turning  his  eyes  to  the  point  at  which  that  Path  opened 
from  the  brow  of  the  wooded  hill  upon  the  east,  where  now 
the  bell  of  the  huge  arsenal  tells  hourly  of  the  coming  of  a 
stranger  along  the  path  of  time.  And  when  some  worn 
and  weary  man  came  in  sight,  upon  his  half  starved  horse, 
or  two  or  three  pedestrians,  bending  beneath  their  packs, 


78  THE     BAT     PATH. 

and  swinging  their  sturdy  staves,  were  seen  approaching,  the 
village  was  astir  from  one  end  to  the  other.  Whoever  the 
comer  might  be,  he  was  welcomed  with  a  cordiality  and 
universality  that  was  not  so  much  an  evidence  of  hospita 
lity,  perhaps,  as  of  the  wish  to  hear  of  the  welfare  of  those 
who  were  loved,  or  to  feel  the  kiss  of  one  more  wave  from 
the  great  ocean  of  the  world.  And  when  one  of  the  set 
tlers  started  forth  upon  the  journey  to  the  Bay,  with  his 
burden  of  letters  and  messages,  and  his  numberless  com 
missions  for  petty  purchases,  the  event  was  one  well  known 
to  every  individual,  and  the  adventurer  received  the  benefit 
of  public  prayers  for  the  prosperity  of  his  passage  and  the 
safety  of  his  return. 

It  was  upon  one  of  the  sweetest  mornings  of  May  that 
Mary  Pynchon  and  her  brother  John  walked  forth  to  enjoy 
the  air,  and  refresh  themselves  with  the  beauty  of  the 
spring-touched  scenery.  Tom,  the  pet,  was  their  com 
panion,  and  as  Mary  heard  the  stroke  of  axes  in  the  woods 
upon  the  Hill,  she  deemed  it  safe  to  walk  in  that  direction. 
Her  steps  naturally  sought  the  Bay  Path, — not,  perhaps, 
because  it  led  to  the  most  charming  view,  or  was  the 
easiest  of  access.  She  could  not  tell  why  she  chose  it.  Her 
feet  almost  by  force  took  the  path  which  her  thoughts  had 
travelled  so  long,  and  led  her  towards  hopes  that  might, 
for  aught  she  knew,  be  on  the  wings  of  realization  to  meet 
her,  and  lead  her  back  to  her  home,  crowned  with  peace 
and  garlanded  with  gladness. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  Mary  and  her  brother 
selected  a  favorable  spot,  and  sat  down.  Far  to  the  North, 
Mount  Holyoke  and  Mount  Tom  stood  with  slightly  lifted 
brows,  waiting  for  their  names.  Before  them,  on  the  West, 
the  Connecticut,  like  a  silver  scarf,  floated  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  valley.  -  Beyond  it,  the  dark  green  hills  climbed 
slowly  and  by  soft  gradations  heavenward,  until  the  sky 
joined  their  upturned  lips  in  a  kiss  from  which  it  has  for- 


THE     BAY     PATH.  79 

gotten  to  awake.  And  all  was  green — fresh  with  new  life, 
and  bright  with  the  dawn  of  the  year's  golden  season. 

There,  too,  were  the  dwellings  of  the  settlers,  some  of 
them  surrounded  by  palisades,  for  protection  against  a  pos 
sible  foe,  and  all  of  them  humble  and  homely.  Near  where 
they  were  sitting  still  swung  the  axes  of  the  woodmen,  and 
off,  upon  the  meadow,  on  the  western  side  of  the  river,  the 
planters  were  cultivating  their  corn.  The  scene  was  one  of 
loneliness,  but  it  was  one  of  deep  beauty  and  perfect  peace. 

Mary  Pynchon  yould  have  been  no  unattractive  feature 
in  the  scene,  to  one  who  could  have  observed  her,  as  she 
sat  with  her  sun-bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  her  features  in 
spired  by  the  "beauty  around  her.  A  form  of  medium  size 
and  faultless  mould  was  but  indifferently  draped  and  un 
gracefully  defined  by  the  economical  fashions  of  the  place 
and  period ;  but  her  face  was  one  whose  beauty  nothing 
but  an  impenetrable  veil  could  hide.  The  spirited  lip,  full 
blue  eye,  well  arched  and  finely  pencilled  eyebrow,  and 
intellectual  forehead,  gave  to  her  face  a  queenliness  of  ex 
pression  that,  to  one  who  did  not  know  her,  might  have 
conveyed  the  idea  of  haughtiness ;  but  the  depth  of  the 
blue  eye,  and  the  soft  oval  outline  of  the  face,  as  it  shaded 
off  into  masses  of  rich  brown  hair  above,  and  stood  relieved 
from  a  snowy  neck  below,  produced  a  combination  of  the 
more  delicate  with  the  stronger  constituents  of  beauty,  as 
rare  as  it  was  attractive. 

She  had  arrived  at  that  stage  in  the  development  of  her 
nature,  when,  unconsciously  to  herself,  and  unobserved  by 
those  around  her,  she  was  waiting  for  a  mate.  A  true 
womanly  nature  grows  to  a  certain  point  of  development, 
and  then  makes  a  pause,  and  looks  around  for  its  com 
panion.  If  that  companion  is  prepared  already,  or  appears 
at  the  convenient  moment,  it  goes  on,  passes  through  ma 
ternity  to  maturity,  and  if  then  its  work  is  done,  it  sits 
down,  and  waits  for  the  angels. 


80  THEBAYPATH. 

There  is  a  period  in  the  early  life  of  every  true  woman 
when  moral  and  intellectual  growth  seems,  for  the  time,  to 
cease.  The  vacant  heart  seeks  for  an  occupant.  The  intel 
lect,  having  appropriated  such  aliment  as  was  requisite  to 
the  growth  of  the  uncrowned  feminine  nature,  feels  the 
necessity  of  more  intimate  companionship  with  the  mas 
culine  mind,  to  start  it  upon  its  second  period  of  develop 
ment.  Here,  at  this  point,  some  stand  for  years,  without 
making  a  step  in  advance.  Others  marry,  and  astonish,  in 
a  few  brief  years,  by  their  sweet  temper,  their  new  beauty, 
their  high  accomplishments,  and  their  noble  womanhood, 
those  whose  blindness  led  them  to  suppose  they  were  among 
the  incurably  heartless  and  frivolous. 

It  was  among  the  vague  shadows  of  this  epoch  in  her  life 
that  Mary  Pynchon  had  many  of  her  meditations.  She 
loved  her  father,  and  knew  that  her  father  loved  her  with 
entire  devotion.  She  loved  her  brother,  and  felt  that  the 
noble  boy  returned  to  her  his  whole  heart.  She  exercised 
love  and  sympathy  for  all  around  her,  and  rejoiced  in  the 
consciousness  that  she  Avas  a  favorite  with  all.  But  that 
was  not  enough  ;  and  as  she  sat  there,  on  that  sweet  May 
morning,  gazing  out  upon  the  landscape,  or  watching  Tom 
as  he  browsed  among  the  shrubs,  or  playfully  chiding  her 
brother  as  he  insisted  on  decking  her  hair  with  the  sweet 
arbutus  and  the  early  shad  blossoms,  her  heart  went  off 
again  over  the  Bay  Path,  through  the  thick,  dark  woods, 
and  over  the  streams,  and  across  the  hills — the  weary  path 
over  which  she  had  travelled  just  two  years  before,  and 
there  came  up  to  her  mind  the  form  of  one  who  had  moved 
with  grace  and  majesty  in  her  dreams  ;  and  whose  bright, 
bold  face,  and  mild,  resolute  eye,  had  been  to  her,  through 
all  the  months  of  her  lonely  dwelling  at  Agawam,  a  charm 
ing  presence  and  a  kindly  power. 

An  hour  or  two,  charmed  by  the  influences  of  the  sweet 
scene  below,  and  the  kindly  sun  above,  had  passed  over  the 


THE     CAY      PATH.  81 

brother  and  sister,  when  they  began  to  talk  of  returning. 
At  length,  they  heard  a  long  drawn  call.  They  listened  for 
its  repetition,  and  the  call  shaped  itself  to  the  name  of 
"  Peter,"  and  came  from  the  quarter  from  which  the  sound 
of  the  axes  had  proceeded. 

"  Peter  Trimble  has  run  away  from  his  chopping,"  said 
John  to  his  sister. 

At  this  instant,  a  sharp,  peculiar  bark,  not  unlike  that  of 
a  fox,  was  heard  proceeding  from  an  evergreen  thicket  near 
by.  Neither  Mary  nor  John  suspected  the  nature  of  the 
animal  that  gave  it  utterance ;  and,  as  it  continued,  the 
deer,  whose  ears  it  had  arrested  at  first,  and  whose  atten 
tion  it  held,  started  off  with  a  bound  into  the  Bay  Path,  and 
ran  away. 

The  bark  then  ceased,  and  Mary  and  John  listened  to 
the  retreating  footsteps  of  their  pet,  until,  at  last,  the  tram 
pling  seemed  to  mingle  with  similar  sounds,  which  were  soon 
broken  in  upon  by  the  crack  of  a  gun  that  rang  through  the 
forest,  and  came  at  last  faintly  echoing  back  from  the 
Western  hills.  Both  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  what  had 
been  done,  and  as  they  sat  in  breathless  silence  awaiting 
further  developments,  they  heard  the  short,  nervous  leaps 
of  the  deer  approaching.  As  Tom  came  in  sight,  and  turned 
from  the  path  to  reach  the  spot  from  which  fear  had  driven 
him,  the  hot  blood  spurted  from  his  side  at  every  bound. 
Almost  sinking,  he  had  just  strength  to  reach  the  spot 
where  Mary  was  sitting,  and  laying  his  pale  nose  in  her  lap, 
and  looking  in  her  face  with  his  glazing  eyes,  settled  prone 
upon  the  ground,  as  if  his  slender  limbs  had  changed  at  once 
from  springing  steel  to  lifeless  flesh. 

"My  poor,  poor  pet !"  exclaimed  Mary,  in  deep  distress. 
"  Who  could  have  been  so  cruel  ?"  Then  instantaneously 
flashed  upon  her  the  singular  combination  of  circumstances 
attending  the  slaughter  of  her  favorite,  and  her  sxidden  grief 
was  merged  in  an  apprehension  for  her  own  personal  safety. 

4* 


82  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Just  as  she  was  disengaging  herself  from  the  head  of 
Tom,  so  that  she  could  rise,  she  heard  the  gallpp  of 
approaching  horses.  Soon  the  foremost  rider  arrived  at 
the  point  opposite  to  where  she  was  sitting,  and,  examining 
the  bushes,  exclaimed  to  those  behind  him — "  Here  are  his 
marks — in  here" — and,  spurring  his  horse  excitedly,  he 
started  directly  towards  the  little  group,  but  failed  to  see 
them  until  within  a  few  feet  of  them.  The  first  tone  of  his 
voice  arrested  Mary's  attention,  and,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
her,  she  had  half  risen,  and  still  held  the  head  of  the  deer 
in  her  hands,  while  John  had  grasped  her  arm,  as  if  fearful 
that  some  harm  were  about  to  fall  upon  her. 

"  Mary  Pynchon !  by  the  immortal  gods !"  exclaimed  the 
stranger,  and,  dropping  his  rein,  he  leaped  from  his  horse, 
and,  as  she  let  fall  the  lifeless  head  of  Tom,  grasped  both 
her  hands,  and  stood  for  a  long  minute  gazing  mutely  and 
with  passionate  affection  and  admiration  in  her  face.  When 
at  last  he  released  his  grasp,  she  pointed  to  the  dead  pet  in 
silence,  with  a  finger  that  trembled  with  varied  emotions. 

"  Ah  !  well,"  said  he,  with  a  gentle,  playful  voice,  "  is  it 
not  fitting  that  we  should  offer  a  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving 
on  the  occasion  of  meeting  thus  happily  ?  Was  not  the 
deer  provided  for  this  very  purpose  ?  Tell  me  that,  Mary 
Pynchon  ?" 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  gallant  in  you,  at  least,  to 
provide  the  sacrifice,  particularly  as  you  do  not  appear  to 
suffer  much  pain  on  account  of  it,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  in  a  state  of  extreme  suffering,  that  is 
true,"  said  the  stranger,  laughing,  "  and  between  you  and 
me,  and  that  suspicious-looking  brother  of  yours,  I  doubt 
whether  you  are." 

The  allusion  to  her  brother  made  her  aware  that  the 
scene  must  be  a  strange  one  to  him,  and,  taking  John  by 
the  hand,  she  said,  "  This  is  Mr.  Holyoke,  John,  of  whom 
you  have  heard  your  father  speak  so  frequently."  Then, 


THE     BAY     PATH.  83 

addressing  that  gentleman,  she  added,  "I  suppose  John 
thinks  that  your  sacrifice  of  Tom  was  a  very  unwarrantable 
affair,  and  regards  it  rather  as  an  omen  than  an  offering." 

"  Omens,  my  boy,"  said  Holyoke,  looking  at  him  with  a 
half-sportive,  half-earnest  expression,  "  are  never  omens  un 
less  you  kiss  them.  A  kick  will  kill  an  omen  as  certainly 
as  it  will  a  hare." 

"  Poor  Tom  !"  said  Mary,  looking  down  sorrowfully  upon 
the  lifeless  pet,  "I  have  a  strong  disposition  to  make  an 
omen  of  you." 

"  Dear  lady,"  exclaimed  Holyoke  with  a  hearty  laugh, 
"  if  we  should  all  follow  the  bent  of  our  dispositions,  omens 
would  multiply  to  a  fearful  extent." 

"  I  should  hesitate  to  become  one  so  long  as  you  are  near, 
at  least,"  replied  Mary,  with  perfect  self-possession,  "  parti 
cularly  as  you  dislike  them  so  much,  and  understand  so 
well  the  manner  of  slaying  them." 

While  this  interview  was  in  progress,  the  two  companions 
of  Holyoke  sat  upon  their  horses  at  a  distance,  curious  spec 
tators  of  the  scene. 

"By  the  way,"  said  one,  looking  at  Holyoke  and  his 
companions,  "  does  it  not  strike  you  forcibly  that  boy's  nose 
is  pretty  essentially  broken  ?  I  never  saw  a  more  jealous- 
looking  little  scoundrel  in  my  life.  By  all  the  nymphs  of 
Agawam,  if  I  were  in  Elizur's  place  I'd  give  him  a  penny, 
and  tell  him  to  take  my  horse  home." 

"  And  if  the  boy  is  the  one  I  think  he  is,"  responded  the 
other,  "  he  would  toss  your  penny  in  your  face,  and  bid. 
you  do  your  own  grooming." 

The  companions  jested  until  tired  of  the  sport,  and  then, 
as  Holyoke  did  not  seem  disposed  to  close  his  interview 
with  Mary,  they  looked  off  upon  the  country,  and  remarked 
upon  its  features.  When  they  had  grown  quite  impatient 
with  the  delay,  and  were  about  proposing  to  leave  Holyoke 
to  follow  at  his  leisure,  they  discovered  a  commotion  far 


84  THEBAYPATH. 

down  the  path  before  them,  which  soon  took  the  form  of  a 
small  company  of  armed  men.  In  order  to  account  for  their 
appearance,  it  will  be  necessary  to  bring  upon  the  stage  an 
actor  with  whom  the  reader  has  already  formed  an  ac 
quaintance. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PETER  TRIMBLE,  who  had  grown  tired  of  his  chopping  upon 
the  hill,  left  it,  on  the  pretence  of  quenching  his  thirst  at 
a  spring,  a  short  distance  from  the  location  of  his  labors. 
Arriving  there,  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  brother  and  sis 
ter,  and,  secreting  himself,  watched  them,  and  listened  to 
catch  such  words  as  might  reach  his  quick  ear.  This  occu 
pation  proving  unsatisfactory,  his  love  of  mischief  took 
another  form,  and,  drawing  upon  his  faculty  of  imitation, 
he  produced  the  bark  that  became  so  wonderfully  product 
ive  in  the  results  which  have  already  been  recounted. 

Peter  only  paused  to  see  the  dying  deer  come  rushing  in 
from  the  Bay  Path,  the  swift  plunge  of  the  horseman  who 
followed  him,  and  his  meeting  with  Mary,  when  he  left  his 
hiding-place,  and,  reaching  the  path  by  a  circuit  that  hid 
him  from  observation,  he  ran  as  fast  as  his  slender  legs 
could  carry  him  for  the  village.  Before  reaching  the  first 
cabin,  he  had  examined  to  see  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life 
around  it,  and,  catching  sight  of  a  head  with  an  old  woman's 
cap  on  it,  he  beckoned  furiously  with  his  hand;  and  the 
wearer,  full  of  greedy  curiosity,  came  out  to  meet  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?"  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
with  her  palms  deprecatingly  spread  towards  the  boy. 

"  Oh !  there's  the  greatest  row  up  on  the  hill  you  ever  see," 
replied  Peter. 

"  What  is  it  ?» 

"  Oh !  it's  the  darndest  row  't  ever  happened  in  this  old 
plantation." 

"  Why !  you  scare  me,  Peter.     Do  tell  me  about  it !" 


86  THEBAYPATH. 

"  Well,  you  see — you  know  Tom,  don't  you — Mary  Pyn- 
chon's  deer  ?  Oh  !  you've  no  idea  anything  about  it.  I 
can't  stop — I've  got  to  go  to  Old  Pynchon's,  and  rout  'im 
out.  It's  the  greatest  kind  of  a  row." 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me,  Peter ;  I  shall  die — I  know  I 
shall,  if  you  don't,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  with  one 
hand  on  her  hip  and  the  other  on  her  heart. 

"  Well !  Tom's  doubled  up — shot  dead.  Mary's  fainted 
away,  and  I  guess  she's  wounded ;  and  John's  crazy  as  a 
loon.  Indians  all  over  the  hill — oh  !  I  can't  stay  no  longer 
— don't  stop  me — my  !  what  a  row !" 

This  programme  was  repeated,  with  suitable  variations 
during  each  performance,  at  the  cabins  intermediate  between 
this  and  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon.  In  approaching  the 
latter  house,  he  met  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  began  his  talk  hi  his 
usual  style. 

"  Now  stop,  Peter,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon.  "  If  I  find  that 
you  tell  me  one  lie,  I  will  have  you  whipped." 

The  real  facts  in  the  case  had  already  been  buried  in  such 
a  crowd  of  lies  that  Peter  was  obliged  to  stop,  and  carefully 
recall  the  scene,  before  he  could  safely  venture  to  describe 
it.  Mr.  Pynchon  gathered  from  his  statement  that  the  deer 
had  been  shot,  and  that  a  stranger  was  with  his  daughter, 
who,  at  the  departure  of  the  messenger,  was  grasping  her 
hand  in  a  very  ferocious  manner.  He  had  already  become 
alarmed  at  her  long  absence,  and  had  set  out  with  his  gun 
to  meet  her,  when  he  encountered  Peter.  Keeping  on  his 
course,  he  was  joined  by  half  a  dozen  planters  who  had 
heard  Peter's  story. 

As  for  Peter,  his  mission  was  not  yet  complete.  He  had 
no  disposition  to  retui-n  with  the  men  to  the  scene  of  the 
terrific  "  row"  which  he  had  so  graphically  described,  but 
he  wanted  some  dinner,  and  proposed  to  employ  what 
little  capital  he  had  left  in  procuring  it.  Seeing  Mrs. 
Pynchon  at  the  door,  whither  she  had  been  called  by 


THE     BAY     PATH.  87 

seeing  the  little  company  of  men  in  the  distance,  he  approach 
ed  her. 

"  Do  you  know  where  those  men  are  going,  Peter  ?" 
inquired  the  old  lady,  with  a  trusting  look  of  inquisitive- 
ness. 

"  They're  going  after  John  and  Mary,"  replied  the  boy, 
and  then  added,  "  Oh  my !  How  I  have  run !" 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  John  and  Mary  ?  Where  are 
they  ?» 

"  They've  got  into  a  terrible  row,"  said  Peter,  pathetic 
ally.  "  Oh,  how  faint  I  feel !  I  wish  I  was  at  home,  so's't 
I  could  have  something  to  eat."  And  he  threw  himself 
upon  the  ground  as  heavily  and  lifelessly  as  if  universal 
paralysis  had  seized  him. 

"  Poor  boy !"  said  the  old  lady,  "  you  shall  have  some 
thing,  right  there  on  the  grass,  and  then  you  must  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

This  was  just  as  Peter  had  calculated,  and  when  the 
loaded  plate  was  placed  by  his  side,  and  his  food  and  his 
batch  of  lies  were  all  before  him,  he  was  very  much  in  his 
element,  and  was  really  in  the  occupation  of  some  of  the 
happiest  moments  of  his  life.  On  being  pressed  for  his 
disclosures,  he  disposed  of  a  huge  mouthful,  and  com 
menced. 

"  You  see  I  was  up  in  the  woods  choppin'.  By'me-bye  I 
heerd  something  a  howling,  and  a  screeching,  and  thinks, 
says  I,  whaPs  that  f  (Interruption  of  several  seconds '  for 
mastication.)  Thinks,  says  I,  is  that  a  bear,  or  a  catamount  ? 
Well !  I  hearked  as  much  as  five  minutes,  I  s'h'd  think, 
when  all  at  once  I  heerd  a  tremenduous  running,  and  I 
struck  for  the  noise  so's  to  see  what  the  row  was.  I  was  a 
little  scat,  you  know,  for  I  couldn't  tell  exactly  what  was 
coming ;  and  I  fell  down  three  or  four  times  and  that 
hendered  me,  but  when  I  got  most  out  to  the  Bay  Path, 
what  do  you  think  I  see  !" 


88  THEBAYPATH. 

Upon  the  statement  of  this  inquiry,  the  imaginative  boy 
turned  his  impassive  face  up  to  meet  an  expression  upon 
that  of  Mrs.  Pynchon,  of  unmingled  pain  and  apprehension. 

"  Oh !  pray  don't  mention  it !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady, 
holding  up  both  hands,  and  waiting  for  the  announcement, 
under  the  impression  that  she  had  urged  the  boy  to  proceed. 

"  Well,  ma'am !  as  I  was  saying  (a  large  mouthful  and 
a  protracted  mastication) — when  I  got  most  out  of  the  Bay 
Path,  I  see  a  woman  and  a  boy,  a  sitting  on  a  log.  Well, 
pretty  soon  I  heerd  a  gun  go  off.  Didn't  you  hear  it  down 
here  ?  I  sh'd  think  you  might.  O  !  'twas  a  tremenduous 
loud  gun  ;  it  liked  to  spit  my  head ;  and  then  pretty  quick 
I  heerd  something  a  r'r'running — r'r'running — r'r'running — 
1'1'lipitalip — 1'1'lipitalip — 1'1'lipitalip — 1'lipitalip — lickitabang 
— ripitasmash — thunder-and-guns — up  the  path,  and  right 
towards  the  woman  and  the  boy  a  sitting  on  the  log.  Well, 
the  critter  was  Tom.  He  was  shot  deader'n  a  flounder ;  and 
he  squashed  right  down  on  t'  the  ground." 

"  Poor  fellow !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  "  you  didn't 
skin  him,  did  you  ?" 

"  Well-,  no,  ma'am,  I  didn't  git  time,"  replied  Peter,  with 
a  slight  chuckle,  which  he  endeavored  to  suppress  by  filling 
his  mouth  anew.  "  I  didn't  git  time,  for  the  deer  hadn't 
more'n  fell,  when  a  man  come  riding  in  after  him,  on  a  big 
horse  all  of  a  lather,  and  says  he,  '  cahoot,  cahoy !  hullaba 
loo  !  who  the  devil's  here  !'  Oh !  'twas  awful !  You  never 
heerd  a  feller  swear  so  in  your  life.  When  he  got  to  where 
the  woman  was,  he  dropped  his  bridle,  and  jumped  off'm 
his  horse,  as  if  he'd  been  catched  in  a  twitch-up,  and  run 
right  up  to  her,  and  grabbed  hold  of  her  hands,  and  squeezed 
'em,  and  looked  as  savage  as  a  meat-axe,  till  she  began  to 
cry,  and  take  on,  and — " 

"Well,  do  tell  me,  Peter,"  said  the  old  lady,  whose 
patience  had  well  nigh  broken  down,  "  where  Mary  and 
John  were  all  this  time." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  89 

"  Mary  and  John  ?"  inquired  Peter,  putting  the  last 
morsel  into  his  mouth,  and  wiping  his  lips  with  his  shirt 
sleeve.  "  Mary  and  John !  ye-e-e-s  !  where  were  they  ! 
sure  enough !" 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  indefinite  manner 
in  which  he  had  spoken  of  those  individuals  as  "  a  woman 
and  a  boy,"  in  order  to  heighten  the  interest  of  his  narrative, 
had  blinded  the  direct  old  lady  who  had  been  his  listener ; 
and  he  saw  that  his  failure,  any  further  than  the  achieve 
ment  of  his  dinner,  was  complete. 

At  length,  rising  from  the  ground,  and  brushing  his  greasy 
jacket,  he  remarked  in  a  very  quiet  tone,  "  I  guess  it's  all 
right  with  Mary  and  John."  Then  turning  his  eye  over 
his  shoulder,  and  catching  the  first  view  of  the  returning 
villagers,  he  said,  "  You'll  have  folks  to  dinner  to-day,  so  I 
guess  I'll  leave." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  started  off  at  a  brisk 
run,  and  was  soon,  through  the  aid  of  a  kind  of  magio 
that  Mrs.  Pynchon  did  not  understand,  but  in  which 
he  was  materially  assisted  by  a  convenient  stump,  out  of 
sight. 

"  Well !  I  should  think  that  boy  was  crazy,  if  he  didn't 
eat  so,"  said  Mrs.  Pynchon,  picking  up  her  plate,  and  walk 
ing  into  the  house. 

When  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  his  companions,  had  arrived  at 
the  scene  of  the  morning's  adventures,  and  found  there, 
radiant  with  health,  and  strong  with  the  richest  pulses  of 
manhood-,  Elizur  Holyoke,  "  the  sonne  of  Mrs.  Hollioke  of 
Linn,  Mr.  Pinchon?s  ancient  friend,"  and  one  whom  he  had 
long  hoped  to  call  his  own  son,  he  embraced  him  with  a 
warmth  that  startled  the  spectators,  broke  down  John's 
jealousy  in  a  moment,  and  brought  tears  of  the  sweetest 
pleasure  to  the  eyes  of  Mary. 

"  My  boy,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  giving  him  the  tenth  shake 
of  the  hand,  "  so  you  must  announce  yourself  to  the  lonely 


90  THE     BA?     PATH. 

settlers  of  Agawam  by  slaughtering  their  cossets,  eh  ?  Well, 
well !  Your  mother  shall  hear  of  this,  sir." 

"  Something  must  die,"  returned  Holyoke,  with  his  merry 
voice  and  sparkling  smile,  "  to  give  room  for  the  new  life 
which  I  feel  in  being  here — here  by  the  side  of  your  daugh 
ter." 

Mr.  Pynchon  looked  at  Mary,  expecting  to  see  her  face 
blossoming  with  blushes,  but  there  she  stood,  self-possessed, 
calm,  and  happy,  like  a  queen  newly  crowned.  To  her,  the 
past  was  gone.  The  fear,  the  bashfulness,  and  the  blush, 
that  had  walked  hand  in  hand  with  every  thought  of  Hol 
yoke,  were  among  the  things  forgotten,  and  never  more  to 
be.  In  the  few  rapturous  minutes  she  had  spent  with  her 
lover,  although  other  hearts  than  his  were  beating  near  her, 
and  other  eyes  gazing  upon  her,  she  had  taken  counsel  of 
assurance.  Her  heart  had  moved  to  a  higher  plane  of  emo 
tion,  and  her  spirit  was  transferred  to  a  sphere  of  purer  light 
and  stronger  faith.  As  in  a  dissolving  view,  a  scene  of 
spring,  bright  with  the  dews  of  rosy  morning,  and  wonder 
fully  silent  with  its  laughing  waters,  melts  with  strange 
identities  into  broad  trees,  sunny  rocks,  calmly  basking 
landscapes,  and  heaven-reflecting  lakes — so,  in  the  light  of 
assured  love,  and  from  canvas  painted  over  with  new  hopes, 
new  emotions,  and  new  spiritual  revelations,  looked  Mary 
Pynchon  still,  but  it  was  Mary  Pyncho"n  transfigured.  The 
angel  of  life  had  slipped  the  golden  clasp  of  his  book,  and 
turned  for  her  another  leaf.  She  hardly  knew  it — nay,  she 
but  dimly  mistrusted  it.  There  was  nothing  unnatural  in 
the  new  phase  of  her  feelings — nothing  that  seemed  un 
wonted  in  her  new  experience.  In  fact,  she  had  never  felt 
more  unembarrassed  or  content.  Her  heart  had  found  its 
home — its  satisfaction — and,  as  she  stood  there,  in  the  pre 
sence  of  her  father  and  her  lover,  there  went  up  from  the 
depths  of  that  heart  an  unuttered,  "  Oh  !  God !  I  thank 
Thee  for  this  hour  !" 


THE     BAY     PATH.  91 

Some  minutes  before  Mr.  Pynchon  concluded  his  inter 
view,  the  villagers  and  the  two  companions  of  Holyoke  had 
started  on  their  way  down  the  hill.  Holyoke  insisted  that 
Mr.  Pynchon  should  mount  his  horse,  which  proposition 
John  had  no  sooner  heard  than  he  started  off  upon  a  run, 
to  overtake  those  who  had  gone  before.  Mr.  Pyn 
chon  vaulted  to  the  saddle,  and  then  playfully  said,  "I 
hardly  know  whether  to  drive  you  in  or  leave  you  to  fol 
low." 

"  I  never  allow  myself  to  be  driven,"  said  Holyoke.  "  But 
have  no  fears  that  I  shall  fail  to  follow,  for  by  the  shadows 
it  is  noon,  and  by  my  appetite  long  after." 

"  Very  well,  I  leave  you,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  start 
ing  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  he  was  soon  out  of  sight.  The  lovers, 
hand  in  hand,  followed.  It  was  mid-day,  and  the  tender, 
half-diaphanous  chestnut-leaves,  and  the  maple  boughs  still 
rosy  with  their  birth-blush,  and  the  pine-buds,  whose  crys 
talline  needles  waited  new  dippings  in  the  dew  and  dryings 
in  the  day,  spread  all  their  fans  and  fingers  in  vain  to  keep 
the  warm  rays  from  the  brows  of  those  who  walked  beneath 
them. 

"  Mary,"  said  Holyoke  at  length,  after  a  minute's  silence, 
"  I  think  you  are  very  beautiful." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Mary  quietly. 

"  How  shall  I  understand  that  ?"  inquired  Holyoke,  with 
a  half  mischievous  smile.  "  Do  you  intend  to  endorse  my 
judgment  or  my  sincerity  ?" 

"  Both,  in  a  measure.  I  neither  doubt  your  sincerity  nor 
despise  your  judgment.  I  ought  to  seem  very  beautiful  to 
you — the  iftost  beautiful  of  anything  in  the  world." 

"  Why,  Mary  ?» 

"  Because  you  love  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  love  you  ?" 

"  I  have  not  inquired  of  myself  how  I  know,"  replied 
Mary,  "  but  I  know,  nevertheless.  I  believe  that  a  woman 


92  THE     BAY     PATH. 

need  never  be  left  in  doubt  in  regard  to  the  real  sentiments 
of  her  professed  lover." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Holyoke,  laughing,  "I  see  that  I 
have  nothing  to  say,  and,  in  fact,  that  I  have  not  the  slight 
est  opportunity  of  making  myself  interesting,  by  making 
you  jealous." 

"It  would  be  impossible,  Elizur,  for  you  to  make  me 
jealous." 

Holyoke  was  amused,  but  not  altogether  pleased.  He 
loved  Mary  with  his  whole  heart,  and  his  great  anxiety 
for  months  had  been  to  assure  himself  that  she  loved 
him ;  but  this  unquestioning  faith  assumed  the  shape  and 
some  of  the  attributes  of  dominion.  There  was  a  conscious 
possession  of  power  on  the  part  of  Mary  that  touched  a 
weak  point  of  vanity  in  his  manhood,  and  made  him  feel 
uneasy. 

"  But,  Mary,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  do  you  know  that 
you  have  taken  a  very  precious  task  out  of  my  hands  ?  I 
have  come  all  the  way  from  the  Bay  to  tell  you  that  I  love 
you — rather  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you — and  to  tell 
you  the  same  story  a  great  many  times ;  but  you  shut  my 
mouth  by  coolly  telling  me  that  my  errand  is  unnecessary." 

This  was  intended  to  be  uttered  in  a  playful  tone,  but 
the  quick  heart  of  the  girl  recognised  a  shadow,  as  if  an 
evil  angel  had  crossed  the  path  of  the  sunbeams  that  were 
falling  upon  her  brow. 

She  stopped,  lifted  one  hand  to  the  shoulder  of  her  lover, 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh !  how  little,  how  little 
do  you  know  me !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  fervently  affec 
tionate  utterance.  "  How  poorly  have  you  learned  a  wo 
man's  heart !  I  should  take  no  pleasure  in  having  you  tell 
me  that  you  love  me,  if  I  were  not  sure  of  the  fact.  But 
now  I  would  have  yoti  tell  me  of  it  every  day  and  every 
hour  of  my  life.  I  would  drink  in  the  assurance  in  words ; 
I  would  inhale  it  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers ;  I  would 


THEBAYPATH.  93 

read  it  on  their  petals ;  I  would  have  the  dear  words,  '  I 
love  youj  come  to  me,  from  you,  through  every  form  of 
utterance,  and  every  ingenuity  of  expression.  They  can 
never  tire  and  never  satisfy.  It  is  because  I  know  that  I 
am  loved  that  I  would  hear  you  say  so,  and  not  because  I 
hear  you  say  so  that  I  know  I  am  loved." 

Holyoke  looked  down, into  her  earnest  eyes,  and  drank 
in  her  earnest  utterances,  with  an  affectionate  admiration 
that  rendered  his  plea  for  pardon  entirely  needless.  The 
kiss  that  he  impressed  upon  her  forehead  he  justified  by  a 
course  of  reasoning  based  upon  the  declarations  that  had 
just  fallen  from  the  girl's  lips,  and  it  was  doubtless  satisfac 
tory  to  her. 

When  the  happy  pair  arrived  at  Mr.  Pynchon's  house, 
they  found  Mrs.  Pynchon  in  the  possession  of  much  clearer 
ideas  of  the  nature  of  the  morning's  business  than  those 
which  Peter  Trimble  had  imparted  to  her.  Holyoke  re 
ceived  a  most  cordial  greeting  at  her  hands,  and,  in  return, 
he  answered  all  her  questions  in  regard  to  her  old  friends 
of  the  Bay,  and  told  her  every  particle  of  news  that  he 
thought  would  interest  her. 

After  taking  their  seats  at  the  dinner-table,  Mrs.  Pyn 
chon  led  off  the  conversation  by  expressing  her  regrets 
that  she  had  nothing  better  to  set  before  her  visitors, 
and  wondered  why  somebody  did  not  think  to  bring  along 
some  steaks  from  Tom,  seeing  he  was  bled  so  nicely. 

"Do  you  suppose  we  would  eat  Tom,  mother?"  ex 
claimed  Mary  in  perfect  astonishment,  laying  down  her 
knife. 

"  Why — wasn't  he  very  fat,  Mary  ?"  inquired  the  old 
lady,  with  a  puzzled  expression  of  countenance. 

"  Why,  mother,  just  think  of  eating  the  dear  creature 
that  we  have  fed  and  petted  all  winter !"  said  Mary.  "  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  eating  John." 

This  aspect  of  the  case  had  not  appeared  to  the  good  old 


94  THEBAYPATH. 

lady,  but  she  was  a  little  piqued  by  Mary's  vehemence,  and 
so,  bent  on  maintaining  her  point,  she  said,  "  Well,  my  dear, 
what  is  the  difference  between  a  deer  and  a  chicken  ?  I've 
known  you  feed  and  pet  chickens  till  they  were  fat,  and  then 
eat  them  rationally  with  the  rest  of  us." 

The  laugh  that  followed  was  at  Mary's  expense,  and  the 
old  lady  urged  her  point  no  further,  upon  learning  from  Mr. 
Pynchon  that  he  had  sent  a  man  to  give  the  slaughtered 
pet  a  decent  burial. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE  presence  of  Mary  Pynchon's  lover  at  Agawam  was 
no  less  the  subject  of  common  gossip  than  common  know 
ledge.  He  had  not  been  -within  the  plantation  a  day  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pynchon  had  received  business  or  friendly 
calls  from  nearly  all  who  dared  to  call  upon  them,  some  of 
whom  achieved  their  object,  and  won  a  sight  of,  and  per 
haps  a  word  with,  the  interesting  gentleman,  while  others 
only  had  the  pleasure  of  bemoaning  the  "  prospect  of  our 
losing  Mary,"  or  of  expressing  the  wish  that  "  things  might 
turn  out  so  that  there  might  be  an  addition  to  the  settle 
ment." 

Agawam  had  never  had  such  a  visitant  before,  and  the 
effect  of  his  presence  upon  the  girls  and  young  women 
particularly,  was  very  noticeable.  Before  he  came,  they 
usually  had  enough  of  labor  to  occupy  their  tune,  but  from 
their  morning  walks  and  afternoon  rambles,  which  invariably 
led  by  Mr.  Pynchon's  house,  one  would  have  supposed  that 
they  had  all  become  suddenly  impressed  with  the  necessity 
of  seeking  health  at  a  common  fountain,  to  which  there  was 
but  a  single  safe  and  direct  route.  There  was  a  general 
experience  of  attraction  to  the  building  that  contained  the 
new  man,  among  the  gentler  sex  of  every  age, — a  kind  of 
indefinite  out-reaching  of  sympathy,  some  of  which  found 
its  highest  satisfaction  in  simply  going  towards  its  object, 
without  the  hope  of  coming  near  it,  just  as  a  score  of  the 
fresh  tendrils  of  a  grape  vine  will  reach  their  delicate  fingers 
towards  a  new,  though  distant  object,  each  with  an  incipient 
curl  of  sympathy  at  its  trembling  terminus,  while  only  one 


96  THEBAYPATH. 

is  near  enough  to  clasp  the  object  in  a  coil  that  knows  no 
release  but  in  death,  or  by  a  rupture  more  cruel  than  death. 

Doubtless  his  relations  to  Mr.  Pynchon  and  his  daughter 
had  their  influence  in  this  matter,  but  there  was  something 
above  and  beyond  these, — something  above  and  beyond 
anything  apparent  to  the  eye,  or  comprehended  in  the  reason. 
He  was  a  man  who  impressed  every  one,  and  received  im 
pressions  from  every  one, — taking,  something  from  every 
individual  with  whom  he  might  be  brought  into  personal 
relation,  and  filling  the  void  with  himself,  so  that  many  found 
themselves  talking  as  he  talked,  with  an  unwonted  elegance 
and  facility,  or  walking  as  he  walked,  with  an  unusual  grace 
of  motion. 

Holyoke  was  no  less  charming  to  the  simple-hearted  Mrs. 
Pynchon  than  to  her  beautiful  step-daughter,  and  became 
as  early  the  confidant  of  the  grave  and  reserved  father  as 
of  the  young  and  noble-hearted  son.  He  was  authority  in 
matters  of  fashion,  and  intelligent  in  questions  of  theology, 
— equally  at  home  in  politics  and  polemics.  His  sojourn  at 
Agawam  was  a  precious  episode  in  the  life  of  the  Pynchon 
family,  and  friendship  nearly  monopolized  the  time  that  love 
could  poorly  spare. 

To  Mrs.  Pynchon  he  was  a  fountain  of  intelligence  con 
cerning  places  and  persons  associated  with  the  past.  To 
Mr.  Pynchon  he  was  a  fresh,  free  spirit,  full  of  vitality  and 
strength,  able  by  the  subtle  powers  of  intuition  to  solve 
questions  that  his  own  reason  had  grappled  with  in  vain. 
To  John  he  became  an  idol — a  man — by  the  side  of  whom 
all  the  men  he  had  seen  were  pigmies — mere  shows  of  men. 

On  the  morning  following  Holyoke's  arrival  at  Agawam, 
he  walked  out  with  Mr.  Pynchon,  while  John  and  some  of 
the  neighbors  joined  his  companions  from  the  Bay  in  a  fish- 
*ng  excursion.  Mr.  Pynchon  communicated  to  him  his  plans 
concerning  the  plantation,  gave  the  character  and  position 
of  each  settler  as  he  passed  his  cabin,  and  soon  introduced 


THE     BAY     PATH.  97 

his  visitor  into  all  the  interests  of  the  place,  and  his  own 
policy  in  their  management  and  development.  Holyoke 
was  unreserved  in  his  comment  upon  each  subject  as  it  was 
presented,  found  a  practical  solution  of  every  difficulty  that 
might  be  involved  in  it,  and  offered  his  free  and  natural 
suggestions  in  a  manner  that  entirely  confirmed  him  in  the 
good  opinion  of  his  host.  This  outside  survey  of  the  plan 
tation,  and  this  introduction  of  Holyoke  to  its  acquaintance, 
did  not  satisfy  Mr.  Pynchon.  With  the  exception  of  Mary, 
he  had  long  felt  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  plantation  who 
was  a  proper  receptacle  of  his  confidence,  in  matters  touch 
ing  his  religious  opinions  and  experience  ;  and  from  her  he 
had  hidden  much,  as  has  before  been  intimated,  through 
the  fear  of  disturbing  her  faith  in  Christian  doctrine  as  gene 
rally  accepted  by  the  Puritan  churches,  or  of  loosening 
her  confidence  in  himself. 

Approaching  the  house  on  their  return  home,  the  old 
gentleman  and  his  guest  sought  a  convenient  location  in  the 
pleasant  morning  sun,  and  sat  down. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  must  be  happy  here,  Mr.  Pyn 
chon,"  said  Holyoke,  breaking  a  silence  that  had  lasted  for 
some  minutes. 

"Why?"  inquired  Mr.  Pynchon,  looking  upon  the  young 
man  with  a  smile. 

"  First,  because  you  are  in  a  pleasant  spot ;  second,  be 
cause  every  one  reveres  you ;  and,  third,  because  you  may 
do  very  much  as  you  please  here,"  replied  Holyoke. 

"  Are  those  all  the  reasons  you  can  give  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Pynchon. 

"  They  are  all  I  thought  necessary  to  give,  because  the 
absolute  essentials  of  happiness  are  things  which  a  man  gene 
rally  carries  with  him, — which  are,  to  a  very  great  extent, 
independent  of  circumstances.  Religion  and  family  affec 
tion,  for  instance,  are,  or  should  be,  unaffected  by  location 
and  associations  " 


98  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  So  far  as  religion  is  concerned,  the  case,  with  me,  is  the 
opposite  of  this,"  rejoined  Mr.  Pynchon ;  and  looking  at 
Holyoke  with  a  smile  of  peculiar  meaning,  he  added,  "  and 
one  of  my  best  friends  is  engaged  in  breaking  up  my  home." 

"  I  understand  the  latter  clause  of  your  statement,"  re 
turned  Holyoke,  with  an  answering  smile,  "and  do  not 
have  it  in  my  heart  to  blame  your  friend  for  undertaking 
the  enterprise,  but  the  first  part  I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  will  explain,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  if  you  have  the 
desire  or  the  patience  to  hear.  You  say  that  religion  is,  or 
should  be,  unaffected  by  location  and  associations,  but  I 
have  no  possession  so  seriously  affected  by  those  accidents 
as  my  religion.  My  relations  with  God  have  been  less  dis 
turbed  by  them  than  my  relations  with  men,  since  I  have 
been  here  in  the  colony ;  and  oftentimes  I  have  even  felt 
that  the  influences  around  me  aided  me  in  spiritual  enjoy 
ment  and  development ;  but  I  have  a  lack  of  sympathy  with 
some  of  the  prevalent  views  of  religious  doctrine,  that  does 
much  to  destroy  my  peace,  and  that  sometimes  fills  me  with 
emotions  that  would  be  akin  to  remorse,  if  they  proceeded 
from  anything  akin  to  guilt." 

"  Where  lies  the  trouble  ?"  inquired  Holyoke.  "  Has  any 
difficulty  sprung  from  your  difference  with  the  views  of 
which  you  speak  ?". 

"  No :  I  have  never  differed  openly,  and  there  lies  my 
trouble.  I  listen,  on  Sabbath  and  on  lecture  days,  to  doc 
trines  that  in  my  heart  I  believe  to  be  full  of  error.  Some 
of  them  disgust  me  by  their  absurdity,  and  others  distress 
me  by  their  detraction  from  the  dignity  of  the  divine  cha 
racter  ;  and  yet  I  feel  bound  to  make  a  show  of  believing 
them,  or  perhaps  feel  it  a  duty  to  refrain  from  dissent  and 
controversy.  I  have  pursued  this  course  because  I  was 
afraid  of  weakening  the  influence  of  the  minister  among  his 
flock,  of  arousing  doubts  in  the  minds  of  some,  of  throwing 
others  off  their  balance,  and,  in  short,  of  injuring  the  cause 


THE     BAY     PATH.  99 

of  Christ  Avhich,  if  I  have  true  knowledge  of  my  own  heart, 
I  am  most  anxious  to  serve." 

"  You  should  be  satisfied  with  your  motives,  at  least," 
responded  Holyoke  thoughtfully. 

"  That  I  am  not,"  returned  Mr.  Pynchon.  "  While  I 
have  no  doubt  of  my  sincerity  in  the  wish  to  advance  the 
cause  of  religion,  I  am  led  to  feel  that  perhaps  a  wish  to 
preserve  my  influence  and  position  in  the  colony  has  not 
been  altogether  without  power  in  determining  my  course 
thus  far.  It  is  this  distrust  of  my  motives,  to  some  extent, 
that  gives  me  uneasiness,  but  the  greater  part  of  it  arises 
from  a  distrust  of  my  own  judgment  in  regard  to  duty.  Is 
it  manly,  is  it  christianly,  tacitly  to  approve  doctrines  which 
my  judgment  rejects  and  my  conscience  condemns  ?  Am 
I  not  endangering  truth  by  these  compromises  with  error 
for  its  sake  ?  Am  I  not  doing  for  truth  the  Avork  of  an 
enemy,  in  the  name  of  a  friend  ?  These  are  questions  that 
trouble  me  constantly,  and  you  can  thus  very  readily  see 
why  location  and  associations  have  very  much  to  do  with  my 
religion." 

"  Do  you  regard  these  errors  of  which  you  speak  as  fatal 
errors,  Mr.  Pynchon?"  inquired  Holyoke. 

"  I  think  a  man  may  be  saved,  and  still  believe  them,  if 
that  is  a  reply  to  your  question,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  And  you  are  perfectly  settled  in,  and  satisfied  with,  your 
own  views  of  doctrine  ?"  continued  Holyoke  interrogatively. 

"  As  well  settled,  perhaps,  as  imperfect  man  may  be.  My 
trials  involve  a  question  of  practical  duty  rather  than  of 
doctrinal  belief." 

"  What  if  I  were  to  quote  to  you  from  Romans  the 
wrords,  '  Hast  thou  faith  ?  Have  it  to  thyself,  before  God,' " 
suggested  Holyoke. 

"  You  would  not  help  me  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon, 
"  for  I  should  quote  from  the  context,  '  for,  whatsoever  is 
not  of  faith,  is  sin !' " 


100  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"  "Well,"  said  Holyoke,  "  your  position  is  a  hard  one,  and 
the  question  of  duty  is  one  which  you  only  can  decide.  I 
cannot  place  myself  in  your  position,  but  were  I  living  on 
this  plantation,  as  I  do  live  in  a  settlement  where,  doubtless, 
the  same  errors  are  taught,  I  should  not  have  the  slightest 
trouble  in  regard  to  them,  although  my  opinions  might  not 
differ  from  yours.  Unimportant  errors  wear  out,  and  drop 
away  from  truth  of  themselves,  if  they  are  let  alone.  If 
they  are  controverted,  they  often  grow  so  as  to  hide  the 
truth,  and  frequently  live  on  the  pledges  of  controversial 
pride,  until  they  have  rendered  the  truth  with  which  they 
may  have  been  associated  a  loathing  and  a  byword.  If  I 
were  certain  that  the  ministers  of  the  colony  were  against 
me,  in  a  point  of  doctrine  which  I  believed  involved  no  fatal 
error,  I  should  certainly  save  my  strength  and  my  influence 
for  advancing  essential  truth,  rather  than  expend  boljh  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  destroy  any  unimportant  errors  with  which 
it  might  for  the  moment  be  associated.  Martyrdom  is 
never  pleasant,  and  can  hardly  be  called  respectable  when 
suffered  at  a  stake  which  the  martyr  is  obliged  to  hold  up 
to  keep  it  from  falling." 

"  Just  as  I  expected  !"  exclaimed  a  musical  voice  behind 
the  gentlemen,  as  Holyoke  uttered  his  last  words.  "  I  have 
been  looking  at  you  from  the  window  for  the  last  half  hour, 
and  I  had  no  doubt  that  you  had  both  shut  your  eyes  to  all 
these  beautiful  things  around  you,  and  the  staple  duties  of 
life,  and  were  discussing  some  dry  chip  of  a  doctrine." 

Both  turned,  and  looked  into  ihe  healthful,  smiling  face 
of  Mary  Pynchon.  Her  father  saw  that  she  was  dressed 
for  a  morning  ramble,  and  guessed  in  what  direction,  with 
out  his  late  companion,  she  wished  him  to  move  ;  but  he 
could  not  give  up  the  conversation  so  readily,  and  addressing 
her,  he  said,  "  Mary,  you  mistake  in  regard  to  the  nature  of 
our  conversation,  but  why  do  you  speak  so  contemptuously 
of  doctrine  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  some  of  the  dryest  chips 


THE     BAY     PATH.  101 

are  the  staple  duties  of  life  which  you  so  readily  associate 
with  beautiful  things." 

"  Because  that  doctrine  is  good  for  nothing  save  as  a 
definition  of  our  relations,  and  relations  are  good  for 
nothing  unless  they  are  practical,"  replied  Mary,  at  once 
becoming  serious  and  animated. 

"The  Oracle  of  Agawam!"  exclaimed  Holyoke,  half 
sportively. 

"  Giving  her  responses  in  enigmas,"  added  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  And  consulted  by  idolatrous  and  deluded  men,"  rejoined 
Mary,  her  flexible  features  in  harmony  with  the  pleasantry. 

"  But  seriously,"  said  Holyoke,  "  did  you  mean  anything 
in  particular  by  that  little  speech  of  yours  ?" 

"  Seriously,  I  did,"  replied  Mary.  "  I  meant  that  God  is 
the  ordainer  of  doctrine,  and  that  men  are  the  performers 
of  duty ;  and  that  any  further  than  doctrine  involves  to  us 
a  question  of  practical  duty  we  have  no  use  for  it,  and  no 
business  with  it.  I  am  very  tired,  if  it  is  proper  for  me  to 
say  so  (and  Mary's  cheeks  kindled,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
with  strong  feeling),  of  these  everlasting  discussions  of,  and 
quarrels  over,  doctrine,  and  their  accompanying  lamenta 
tions  over  neglect  of  duty.  Men  will  talk  of  nothing  but 
doctrine  from  morning  till  night,  and  have  nothing  to 
bemoan  in  their  prayers  but  their  neglect  of  duty ;  while, 
if  they  had  but  done  their  duty  they  would  have  found  out 
the  doctrine,  as  well  as  won  honor  to  religion,  and  saved 
remorse  to  themselves." 

"  That  may  all  be  true,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  a 
part  of  it  is,"  said  Holyoke,  "  but  I  do  not  exactly  see  how 
a  man  can  find  out  one  doctrine  by  performing  the  duties 
issuing  from  relations  defined  by  another." 

"  Just  over  the  bank,  there,  flows  the  Connecticut,"  said 
Mary,  raising  her  hand,  and  blushing  at  her  own  earnest 
ness,  "  and  its  waters  come  from  hills  and  valleys  very  far 
North.  Now  if  you  were  wishing  to  find  the  sources  of 


102  THE     BAY     PATH. 

the  stream,  you  would  not  wander  indefinitely  over  the 
whole  northern  region  after  them.  You  would  begin  here, 
and  trace  the  river  upwards,  and  thus  find  them  inlallibly. 
Now  in  God  are  the  sources  of  duty,  and  they  flow  out 
from  Him  through  streamlets  of  relationship,  until  they 
combine  in  one  large  river  which,  if  we  follow  it,  will  not 
only  bring  us  to  Him,  but  will  show  us  the  location,  size, 
and  character  of  each  tributary  as  we  advance  upwards. 
At  this  end  it  is  duty,  and  God  is  at  the  other,  and  as  we 
can  only  find  our  way  to  God  through  duty,  so  we  cannot 
fail  to  discover  all  necessary  doctrine,  for  it  must  lie  directly 
on  the  way.  The  remark  of  the  Saviour  that  '  if  a  man 
will  do  His  will  he  shall  know  of  the  doctrine,'  is  doubtless 
a  gracious  promise,  but  it  is  no  less  the  statement  of  a 
philosophical  truth." 

When  Mary  had-finished  her  simple  and  beautiful  lesson, 
there  were  tears  inJHolyoke's  eyes,  called  there  by  various 
agencies.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  eloquent,  and  touched  his 
sensibilities,  and  in  the  second,  the  beautiful  speaker  was 
his  own  dear  betrothed ;  and  the  love  that  had  swelled  in 
his  bosom  for  her  brimmed  with  new  fulness  as  he  compre 
hended  with  new  appreciation  the  intelligence  that  informed 
her  Christian  character,  and  the  preciousness  of  the  prize  he 
held  in  the  possession  of  her  love. 

Mr.  Pynchon,  as  he  turned  to  bid  the  lovers  a  good  morn 
ing  and  a  pleasant  ramble,  was  a  gratified  witness  of  the 
emotion  apparent  in  Holyoke,  and  yet  his  gratification  was 
not  untouched  with  sadness,  for  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
what  was  the  young  man's  gain,  was  to  a  certain  extent 
his  own  loss.  But  as  he  walked  slowly  homewards,  and 
turned  to  observe  his  children  as  they  passed  down  the 
street  in  loving  converse,  and  felt  how  precious  they  were 
to  each  other,  and  how  precious  a  thing  was  love,  his  selfish 
ness  vanished,  and  a  prayer  for  their  constancy  and  happi 
ness  found  utterance  at  his  trembling  lips. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  103 

While  he  was  meditating,  the  lovers  had  left  the  street, 
and,  striking  into  the  Bay  Path,  had  passed  beyond  his 
vision.  They  sought,  by  a  common  impulse,  the  spot  where 
they  had  met  on  the  previous  day,  and  there  found  the  fresh 
mound  that  marked  the  resting-place  of  the  unfortunate  pet. 
Mary  proceeded  to  a  neighboring  shrub,  and  broke  off  a 
twig,  white  with  shad  blossoms,  and  laid  it  upon  the  mound, 
with  such  a  degree  of  tenderness  and  respect  that  Holyoke, 
half  amused,  stepped  to  her  side,  and  looking  in  her  demure 
face  with  a  merrily  twinkling  eye,  exclaimed,  "  In  memory 
of  the  deer — departed !" 

Mary  could  not  entirely  maintain  her  gravity,  although 
she  endeavored  to  do  so,  and  half  sportively,  half  sadly  she 
replied,  in  his  own  vein,  "Flowers  are  a  proper  offering,  for 
here  lies  a  hart  that  loved  me." 

"  Good !  I  am  relieved  !"  exclaimed  Holyoke.  "  I  never 
knew  a  woman  with  a  broken  heart  who  kept  her  wit." 

"  And  I  never  knew  a  man  with  very  much  wit  who  kept 
a  heart  to  break,"  rejoined  Mary,  with  an  insinuating  tone 
and  a  roguish  smile. 

"  Have  you  any  acquaintances  that  happen  to  be  heart 
less  ?"  inquired  Holyoke  with  a  jocular  look  of  concern. 

"  Oh  !  no  !"  replied  Mary,  merrily  laughing  ;  "  there  are 
none  among  them  who  possess  the  conditions." 

"  A  truce  !  a  truce !"  exclaimed  Holyoke.  "  Let  us  have 
a  suspension  of  hostilities,  while  I  repair  damages." 

Holyoke's  efforts  to  repair  damages  were  of  the  usual 
character  under  such  circumstances.  No  music  had  so 
charmed  him,  in  his  whole  life,  as  the  words  of  repaitee  that 
had  closed  his  mouth.  He  would  have  been  willing  to  be 
the  victim  of  Mary's  sharp  words  to  any  extent,  for  some 
how  (and  there  lay  the  mystery)  her  utterances  seemed 
to  be  his  property,  for  other  reasons  than  that  they  were  at 
his  expense.  To  be  beaten  in  an  argument  by  Mary  would 
have  been  a  boon  almost  worth  praying  for,  while  to  be 


104  THE     BAY    PATH. 

fairly  down  in  an  encounter  of  wits  was  a  bliss  that  he  felt  sure 
of  re-achieving  at  every  convenient  opportunity.  In  short, 
the  sweetest  pride  he  had  ever  tasted  was  that  which  came 
to  his  lips  on  the  same  breath  that  asserted  in  language  the 
most  appropriate  the  equality  of  the  pure  mind  with  which 
he  was  matched. 

Seeking  still  higher  ground,  the  lovers  paused  and  looked 
off  upon  the  valley. 

"  When  shall  you  be  ready  to  leave  your  Arcadia  ?''  in 
quired  Holyoke  tenderly. 

"  When  love  and  duty  agree  in  permitting  me  to  leave 
it,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  I  believe  you  profess  to  find  your  duty  in  your  rela 
tions,"  said  Holyoke,  with  an  allusion  to  a  portion  of  the 
religious  conversation  of  the  morning. 

"  And  what  then  ?"  inquired  Mary. 

"  Does  it  not  follow  that  your  highest  duty  will  flow  from 
your  tonderest  relations?" 

"  Let  us  speak  plainly,"  said  Mary.  "  Do  you  wish  me 
to  leave  this  place?  Do  you  wish  me  to  leave  my  father, 
my  sister,  my  brother?" 

The  question  was  asked  with  evident  emotion  and  anxious 
earnestness,  and  Holyoke  could  only  reply  by  inquiring 
what  kind  of  an  answer  she  wished  for  or  expected. 

"I  have  thought,"  said  Mary,  "or  more  properly,  per 
haps,  dreamed,  that  when  your  eyes  should  comprehend  the 
beauty  of  that  river  and  the  valley  through  which  it  passes, 
and  these  pleasant  hills,  and  should  learn  how  large  the 
harvests  are,  and  how  full  the  woods  are  of  game  and  the 
streams  offish,  it  would  seem  to  you  a  place  where  you  would 
love  to  live, — where  you  would  love  to  expend  the  force 
of  your  enterprise  and  the  influence  of  your  life.  I  have 
become  strangely  attached  to  the  people  here,  and  to  the, 
enterprise  in  which  they  are  engaged.  My  father  is  hap 
pier  here  than  he  would  be  elsewhere  in  the  colony,  and 


THE     BAT     PATH.  105 

here  is  my  young  brother,  who,  I  am  sure,  could  hardly 
get  along  without  me.  I  know  you  cannot  attribute  the 
feeling  to  anything  that  makes  me  unworthy  of  you  or 
your  love,  but  I  confess  that  the  thought  of  leaving  the 
settlement  fills  me  with  sadness." 

Mary  uttered  these  words  with  anxious  misgivings,  and 
Holyoke  heard  them  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  know,"  continued  Mary,  taking  one  of  his  hands  in 
her  own,  "  that  your  associations  are  all  at  the  Bay,  that 
your  mother  is  there  and  all  your  mates,  but  there  are 
others  there  to  take  care  of  and  comfort  those  who  are 
dear  to  you.  I  know  you  would  lose  much  by  coming  here, 
but  would  you  not  gain  much  ?  It  seems  hard  to  me  to 
relinquish  the  privilege  of  helping  to  mould  the  charac 
ter  of  this  settlement,  and  give  life  to  influences  which 
shall  be  active  when  all  the  valley,  up  to  and  beyond 
those  mountains,  shall  be  full  of  people,  rejoicing  in  hap 
py  homes  and  overflowing  harvests.  If  I  feel  thus,  who 
am  a  woman,  a  man  with  talent  and  power  and  superior 
position  would,  it  seems  to  me,  look  upon  such  a  privi 
lege  as  more  precious  than  comfort,  and  more  valuable 
than  riches." 

She  paused  for  a  reply,  and  paused  with  anxiety,  for  she 
felt  a  chilling  influence  in  the  half  offended  look  that  Hol 
yoke  still  cast  upon  the  ground,  but  dared  not  lift  to  her 
honest  face. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  unreasonable  as  a  man's 
love,  because  it  is  so  largely  mingled  with  personal  pride. 
A  woman  is  simply  grieved  if  she  have  not  the  whole  of 
her  lover's  or  her  husband's  heart.  A  man  is  oifended  if 
he  even  mistrust  that  his  will,  his  claims,  and  his  love  are  not 
supreme  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  his  mistress  or  his  wife. 
And  so,  while  Holyoke  was  listening  to  the  beautiful  words 
of  one  who  had  honored  him  by  her  love,  and  by  associat 
ing  him  with  schemes  of  noble  social  and  Christian  enter- 

5* 


106  THE     BAT     PATH. 

prise,- a  jealous  feeling  touched  his  heart, — a  feeling  spring 
ing  from  the  idea  that  she  had  planned  without  reference  to 
his  will,  and  acknowledged  claims  paramount  to  his.  He 
knew  that  the  feeling  was  a  mean  one,  and  yet,  while  fully 
ashamed  of  it,  he  would  not  shake  it  off,  but  stood  there, 
like  a  man  as  he  was,  with  a  kind  of  dogged  determination 
to  give  pain  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  and  whom  he 
would  not  have  seen  misused  by  another  without  a  thorough 
vindication  of  his  claim  to  be  her  protector. 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  me  well  enough  to  go  with  me 
wherever  it  is  for  my  interest  to  go,  or  where  my  interests 
already  are  ?"  said  Holyoke,  with  a  half  averted  gaze  and 
reddening  face. 

"  And  can  you  say  that  to  me  ?"  exclaimed  Mary,  half 
deprecatingly,  half  reproachfully. 

Holyoke  looked  at  her,  and  had  the  selfish  satisfaction  of 
seeing  all  he  wished  to  see,  and  was  then  ready  for  forgive 
ness.  He  saw  a  pair  of  eyes  brimming  with  tears.  He  saw 
upon  beautiful  features  an  expression  of  wounded  love  and 
injured  sensibilities.  He  saw  what  he  had  unworthily  craved 
— a  demonstration  of  his  own  power  and  her  devotion. 
He  stooped  to  kiss  a  tear  that  was  falling  from  her  cheek 
— an  act  which  she  received  half  unconsciously,  with  eyes 
still  fixed  upon  him.  At  last,  as  he  tried,  half  laughing,  to  rally 
her  upon  her  sadness,  the  sense  of  shame  came  over  him, 
and  his  poor  pride  gave  way  before  an  honest  indignation 
against  himself,  which  found  vent  in  strong  language. 

"  Mary,"  said  Holyoke,  taking  her  hands  in  his  own,  "  it 
is  my  deliberate  opinion  that  I  am  a  heartless,  contemptible 
man.  I  have  been  as  mean  and  unmanly  as  Judas.  I  yield 
myself  to  your  reproaches,  and  will  submit  to  any  penalty 
you  may  inflict.  I'm  a  fool — an  utter  fool !" 

"  You  cannot  expect  me  to  marry  such  a  man  as  you 
describe  yourself  to  be,"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile  that  rose 
to  her  face  unbidden. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  107 

"  If  you  really  knew  how  I  have  abused  you,  and  how 
heartlessly  I  have  led  you  into  this  trap,  I  am  not  sure  that 
you  would  not  reconsider  your  pledge  of  truth  to  me." 

"  Well,  confession  will  go  further  towards  securing 
mercy  for  you  than  anything  else,  so  you  had  better  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  tell  the  worst." 

"  This  morning,  Mary,"  said  Holyoke,  leading  her  to  a 
seat,  "  your  good  father  walked  with  me  all  over  the  settle 
ment,  and  pointed  out  the  beautiful  lands  on  both  sides  of 
the  river,  informing  me  of  allotments  still  to  be  made,  and 
lots  that  were  for  sale,  and  I  knew  the  secret  wish  that 
actuated  him  in  this  survey;  but  I  said  nothing,  and  let 
him  talk,  accepting  no  hint,  and  blind  to  every  anxious 
suggestion.  And  then  you  came,  and  here,  after  pouring 
frankly  into  my  ears  your  noble  words  and  wishes,  that 
might  have  come  from  an  angel,  and  did  come  from  motives 
as  pure  as  words  were  ever  born  in,  I  trampled  on  your 
feelings  and  your  suggestions,  and  selfishly,  and  with 
perverse  intention,  injured  you  by  doubting  a  love  that  I 
knew  to  be  true.  And  now,  with  these  facts  before  you, 
what  should  you  judge  I  came  to  Agawam  for  ?" 

"  You  could  not  have  come  to  do  this." 

"  Very  well — I  did  not,  but  what  do  you  suppose  I  came 
here  for  ?» 

"I  have  had  the  impression,"  said  Mary,  slightly  puzzled 
by  his  manner,  "  that  you  came  to  see  me." 

"  I  did,  my  love,  and  I  came  also  to  find  a  place  to  live  in 
— to  plant  here  my  home,  my  fortunes,  and  my  name." 

"May  God  bless  you!"  exclaimed  Mary,  and  hid  her 
face  upon  his  breast. 

"  Your  prayer  is  answered./'  responded  Holyoke  tenderly, 
"  even  while  you  are  speaking." 

When,  at  length,  she  lifted  her  head,  Holyoke  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "  Are  my  crimes  forgiven  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Mary,  "  they  are  forgotten." 


108  THE     BAl     PATH. 

The  lovers  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  which  was  at 
last  broken  by  Holyoke.  "Mary,"  said  he,  "I  have  just 
conceived  an  idea  that  seems  strange  to  me  as  well  as 
rational." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  That  I  have  become  a  new  being  in  a  new  world." 

"  Explain,"  said  Mary. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  your  childhood  without  having  a 
vision  of  your  childhood's  home  ?  Can  you  think  of  your 
self  as  a  little  child,  without  seeing  all  that  surrounded  you 
when  a  child  ?" 

"  Granted  that  I  cannot,"  replied  Mary  :  "What  then?" 

"  Would  it  not  seem  to  you  that  the  scene  was  thus  a 
part  of  the  soul — that  the  soul,  by  receiving  impressions 
from  it  and  passing  into  it  in  the  realization  of  life,  had 
become  fitted  to  it,  and  bore  the  stamp  of  all  its  features  ?" 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Mary,  "  and  now  for 
your  new  idea." 

"  I  felt  as  I  was  sitting  here,  that  my  soul  had  flowed  out 
upon,  and  fitted  itself  to  a  new  scene, — as  if  all  that  I  saw 
around  me  had  become  a  part  of  me;  and  certainly  no 
thought  of  love  for  you  can  ever  visit  me,  without  bringing 
this  picture  with  it." 

"  Yours  should  be  a  great  love  to  be  worthy  of  a  casting 
in  such  a  mould,"  said  Mary,  smiling  at  the  fancy,  "  and  I 
take  it  as  a  pledge  that  your  soul  can  never  fit  itself  to  any 
other." 

"Mary,  you  are  inclined  to  joke  me — I  see  it  in  your  eye, 
but  the  truth  is,  I  feel  just  now  intensely  poetical.* 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  Mary,  with  a  look  of  well  dis 
guised  concern,  "  you  are  not  going  to  set  up  a  claim  to  the 
proprietorship  of  these  lands,  based  on  the  fact  that  they 
have  become  a  part  of  you,  are  you  ?" 

"  When  you  become  a  part  of  me,  I  calculate  I  shall  set  up 
a  claim  of  proprietorship,"  responded  Holyoke,  reluctantly 


THE     BAT     PATH.  109 

drawn  away  from  his  pet  conceit,  "  and  why  should  wood 
land  differ  from  wife  ?" 

"  There  is  one  difference,  at  least :  the  wife  takes  your 
name  and  the  woodland  does  not." 

"  Honestly,  Mary,"  said  Holyoke,  "  it  would  be  a  very 
great  happiness  to  give  my  name  to  a  scene  like  this,  to  be 
linked  with  it  for  ever,  to  have  it  spoken  from  a  mountain 
top  or  sung  by  a  waterfall." 

"  If  you  wish  it,"  said  Mary,  entering  into  his  enthusiasm, 
"  let  it  be  so.  Do  you  see  that  blue  mountain  top  at  the 
North,  just  lifting  itself  above  the  intervening  forests?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  that  be  MX.  HOLYOKE  for  ever !"  said  Mary,  stretch 
ing  out  her  band. 

"  Amen !"  responded  Holyoke,  "  and  I  shall  see  that  your 
authority  in  bestowing  the  name  is  fully  honored.  But 
what  shall  be  done  with  the  lonely  mountain  westward  of 
mine  ?  It  would  be  unkind  to  leave  that  nameless." 

"Let  it  be  named  in  honor  of  the  poor  pet  that  lies 
yonder,"  said  Mary,  pointing  to  the  grave  of  Tom. 

"  Let  it  be  MT.  TOM  for  ever !"  said  Holyoke,  in  sportive 
imitation  of  Mary,  and  the  lovers  simultaneously  rose,  and 
bent  their  steps  homewards. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE  reader  has  not  yet  received  a  proper  introduction  to 
the  family  of  Mr.  George  Moxon,  but  there  have  been 
good  reasons  for  the  delay.  The  family  had  its  peculiarities, 
and  they  were  peculiarities  so  essentially  idiocratic  that 
the  most  favorable  circumstances  were  necessary  to  be  in 
conjunction,  for  their  thorough  exhibition. 

For  several  days  succeeding  the  events  recorded  in  the 
last  chapter,  the  weather  was  hot  and  sultry ;  and,  on  the 
evening  which  has  been  chosen  for  the  introduction  of  this 
family,  it  had  cleared,  and  cooled,  and  refreshed  itself,  and 
everything  and  everybody  else,  by  the  first  thunder-shower 
of  the  season.  A  big  black  cloud  had  risen  slowly  and  gloomi 
ly  in  the  West ;  silver-headed  giants  had  come  up  behind  it, 
and  peeped  over  one  another's  shoulders  into  the  valley, 
slowly  changing  their  places  and  climbing  higher  and  higher, 
until  at  last  a  broad  grey  screen  hid  them  and  the  sky  above 
them,  and  spread  over  the  heavens.  And  then  there  was 
much  hurrying  to  and  fro,  in  the  advance  battalions  of  the 
storm  ;  and  the  roar  of  the  chariot  wheels  and  the  tramp  and 
rush  of  the  on-coming  legions  filled  the  air.  At  last,  the  scat 
tering  shot  of  the  first  distant  discharge  fell  pattering  upon 
the  forest  leaves  and  on  the  cabin  roofs ;  while  nearer,  and 
with  still  increasing  vividness,  flashed  the  magnificent  artil 
lery. 

There  was  a  great  scene  between  the  giants  of  the  clouds 
and  the  giants  of  the  forests.  At  first,  the  former  came 
down  on  the  Avind  in  a  hand-to-hand  encounter.  They 
grappled,  they  wrestled,  they  writhed,  they  groaned,  they 


THE     BAY     PATH.  Ill 

roared  ;  but  the  forest  giants  were  the  victors,  and,  in  the 
first  lull  of  the  storm,  their  antagonists  retreated,  and  took 
up  their  position  behind  the  clouds,  from  whence  they  kept 
up  a  scattering  fire  upon  the  lower  hosts,  who,  after  the 
heat  of  the  conflict,  stood  bathing  their  brows  in  the  sweep 
ing  rain.  Many  an  old  oak — a  soldier  of  the  centuries — 
was  cleft  through  the  helmet,  and  many  a  wounded  veteran 
pine  smoked  in  the  sweat  of  his  agony. 

The  shower  came  on  just  before  sunset,  and  continued 
until  the  dusk  of  evening  had  almost  deepened  into  night. 
There  was  stillness  and  solemnity  in  all  the  cabins.  To  their 
inhabitants,  the  storm  was  an  exhibition  of  the  power  of 
God  ;  and  it  was  no  less  a  natural  impulse  than  a  recog 
nised  Christian  duty  to  keep  reverently  silent  when  His 
voice  was  uttering  itself  in  tones  that  had  once  echoed  from 
the  sides  of  Sinai. 

The  house  of  the  Moxons  was  peculiarly  a  solemn  place. 
It  was  in  the  presence  of  such  an  exhibition  of  power  as  the 
storm  presented  that  Mr.  Moxon  betrayed  the  weakest 
points  of  his  character.  There  was  something  so  terribly 
positive  about  the  descent  of  a  thunderbolt,  the  roar  of  the 
wind,  and  the  down-coming  of  the  rain, — something  so 
seemingly  regardless  of  him  or  his  feelings, — something  so 
levelling  in  its  effect  upon  social  and  all  other  distinctions, 
that  it  took  away  his  strength,  made  him  forget  his  position, 
and  drove  him  to  promises  and  prayer.  He  and  his  wife, 
and  two  children,  both  girls,  were  gathered  hi  their  princi 
pal  room,  and  not  a  word  was  uttered. 

Mr.  Moxon  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair, — his  lips  moving 
in  silent  prayer,  or  his  form  cringing  before  the  sharp 
lightning  ;  and  only  stirred  his  limbs  to  change  their  posi 
tion,  which,  in  his  nervous  state,  became  painful  after  hav 
ing  been  sustained  for  very  brief  spaces  of  time.  Mrs. 
Moxon  sat  in  another  chair,  holding  in  her  arms  her  young 
est  daughter,  Rebekah,  and  divided  her  attention  between 


112  THE     BA1      PATH. 

her,  her  husband,  the  window,  and  the  bed  near  it,  where 
lay  her  oldest  daughter,  Martha,  a  convalescent  from  a 
somewhat  protracted  illness. 

Martha  was  the  only  one  who  had  not  been  terrified  by 
the  shower.  She  had  lain  upon  her  bed  in  such  a  position 
as  to  witness  through  the  window  the  progress  of  the  storm, 
and  she  had  enjoyed  it  very  keenly. 

After  the  rain  had  mostly  passed  over,  and  nothing  re 
mained  to  tell  of  the  shower  but  the  wet  earth  and  the 
flashing  of  the  lightning,  whose  thunder  carne  but  feebly 
back  to  the  ear  from  the  East,  Mrs.  Moxon  rose  from  her 
chair  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed.  Taking  the  little  inva 
lid's  hand  in  her  own,  she  said,  "  How  does  my  little 
daughter  feel  this  evening  ?" 

"  Pretty  well,"  replied  the  child,  giving  her  a  look  with 
her  large  dark  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,  Martha,  who  has  cured  you  ?  You  have 
been  very  sick." 

"No!     Who  has?" 

"  God  has  cured  you,  my  child,  and  you  should  be  very 
thankful  to  Him  for  it.  I  hope  my  little  girl,  when  she  says 
her  prayers  to-night,  will  not  forget  to  thank  her  heavenly 
Father  for  his  kindness  to  her,  in  making  her  well  again." 

The  little  girl  lay  reflecting  upon  the  information  con 
veyed  by  her  mother,  and  was  evidently  inclined  to  doubt 
its  correctness.  At  length,  to  settle  a  preliminary  question, 
she  said,  "  Mamma,  who  made  me  vomit  ?" 

Mrs.  Moxon  turned  and  looked  at  her  husband,  who 
heard  the  reply,  and  who,  being  unable  to  answer  the  ques 
tion  satisfactorily  to  himself  or  the  child,  said  nothing.  The 
mother  was  saved  from  the  necessity  of  continuing  the  con 
versation  in  that  direction  by  a  sudden  exclamation  of  the 
child,  whose  eyes  had  reverted  to  the  window. 

"Oh,  mamma!  mamma!"  exclaimed  the  little  girl;  "I 
saw  God  light  a  star  then !" 


THE     BAY     PATH.  113 

"  I  guess  not,  my  child,"  said  the  mother. 

'"  Yes,  I  did,  mamma,  and  I  saw  him  throw  down  the  coal, 
clear  down  by  the  clouds  there,  till  it  fell  into  the  water, 
and  went  out." 

The  father  and  mother  were  both  confounded,  but  their 
condition  was  not  unusual,  when  in  conversation  with  this 
child.  Neither  parent  had  been  able  to  pursue  a  tram  of 
thought  with  her  for  any  considerable,  or  at  least  any 
satisfactory  distance,  without  being  overwhelmed  by  some 
unanswerable  question,  shocked  by  some  strange  remark, 
or  startled  by  some  wild  revelation.  Yet  both  felt  that  they 
must  not  stop  talking  with  her  and  to  her,  and  while  the 
mother,  in  particular,  trembled  to  hear  her  speak,  she  could 
not  refrain  from  the  endeavor  to  train  her  wild  fancies  and 
regulate  her  imagination.  In  this  endeavor,  religion  was 
her  only  means ;  but  religion,  by  some  strange  though  by 
no  means  unusual  fatality,  was  just  the  subject,  of  all  others, 
to  set  her  imagination  running  upon  its  wildest  freaks. 

The  mother  still  sat  upon  the  bed.  She  wondered  what 
she  should  say  next.  At  last  she  thought  she  would  try,  if 
possible,  to  resume  the  thread  of  conversation  she  had 
originally  commenced.  "  Martha,"  said  she,  "  you  must 
not  only  be  thankful  to  God  for  taking  care  of  you  while 
you  have  been  sick,  and  for  curing  you,  but  you  must  try, 
when  you  get  well,  to  be  a  very  good  little  girl,  and  do  all 
you  can  to  please  Him  and  glorify  Him." 

Martha  turned  her  large  eyes  towards  her,  and  said, 
"  Mamma,  how  do  you  do  when  you  glorify  God  ?" 

Mrs.  Moxon  was  puzzled  at  this  question,  straightforward 
and  natural  as  it  was,  but  she  tried  to  answer  it.  "  We 
must  glorify  God,"  said  she,  "  by  doing  all  He  wishes  to 
have  us,  and  by  praising  Him,  and  loving  Him,  and  trying 
to  have  everybody  else  love  and  praise  Him."  She  was 
not  exactly  satisfied  with  her  own  exposition,  but  she 
deemed  it  CDrrect,  so  far  as  it  went,  and  paused. 


114  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  What  does  God  love  to  be  praised  so  for  ?'  'inquired 
the  child. 

Unfortunately  the  mother  could  think  of  nothing  better 
in  reply  than  to  ask  her  why  she  loved  to  be  praised. 

Martha  looked  at  her  mother,  with  her  wonderful  eyes 
big  with  a  new  and  strange  apprehension,  and  said,  "  God 
isn't  proud,  is  He,  mamma  ?" 

The  poor  mother  rose  despairingly  from  the  bed,  and 
resumed  her  seat  in  the  chair. 

"  You  must  try  to  go  to  sleep  now,  Martha,"  said  Mr. 
Moxon,  breaking  a  silence  that  he  had  maintained  since  the 
commencement  of  the  storm. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  to  sleep  with  me,  papa,"  replied 
the  child,  "  for  then  you  could  go  to  my  brick  house,  and 
see  everything  I've  got  there." 

"  Your  brick  house  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  your  brick 
house  ?" 

"  I've  got  a  brick  house,  and  a  blue  cat  in  it,"  said  the 
child,  "just  as  blue  as  the  sky,  and  it  has  got  red  rings 
round  its  eyes,  and  a  whole  parcel  of  little  red  kittens,  all 
made  out  of  bricks.  Just  think,  papa !  All  made  out  of 
bricks  !  And  I've  got  a  beautiful  doll  in  it,  with  wings — I 
guess  her  wings  are  green — I  guess  they  are.  Her  name  is 
Martha  Brick,  and  she  can  say  all  her  letters,  and  spell 
Nebuchadnezzar  both  ways ;  and  I've  got  some  beautiful 
birds !  Oh !  they're  just  as  beautiful !  that  fly  right 
through  the  window  when  it's  down,  and  then  one  of  them 
'lights  on  the  blue  cat's  head,  and  they  keep  'lighting  on 
one  another,  till  they  pile  clear  up  to  the  plastering ;  and 
pretty  soon  I  step  on  the  blue  cat's  tail,  and  she  screams, 
and  runs  up  the  chimney,  and  that  tips  all  the  birds  over, 
and  they  laugh  just  as  loud  as  they  can  laugh,  and  fly 
and  get  on  to  the  backs  of  the  little  brick  kittens,  and 
drive  them  round  the  rooms  and  round  the  rooms;  and 
pretty  soon  a  great  black  man  conies  into  the  room  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  115 

blows  his  nose,  and  the  birds  all  fly  out  of  the  window 
again,  and — " 

"Martha!  Martha!  my  dear  child,  you  will  tire  your 
self,  so  that  you  will  not  sleep  to-night,  if  you  do  not  stop 
talking  in  this  way,"  exclaimed  her  father. 

"  I  can  go  to  sleep  on  my  bed  hi  the  brick  house,"  said 
the  little  girl,  looking  through  the  window  up  to  the  stars, 
"  for  oh !  there's  a  beautiful  angel,  just  as  big  as  he  can  be, 
comes  every  night  and  sits  on  my  bed,  and  tells  me  the 
prettiest  stories,  and  sings  the  prettiest  songs ;  oh  !  they're 
just  as  pretty !  and  sometimes  there's  two  angels,  and  one 
stands  on  the  head-board  and  the  other  stands  on  the  foot 
board,  and  they  reach  over,  and  take  hold  of  hands,  and 
kiss  one  another,  and  jump  over  one  another's  shoul 
ders,  and  the  blue  cat  and  all  her  little  kittens  get  into  bed 
with  me,  and  we  sleep  just  as  warm  as  can  be,  till  the  great 
black  man  comes  in  and  blows  his  nose,  and  then  the 
angels  fly  away,  and  the  blue  cat  goes  up  chimney,  and  the 
little  kittens  all  cuddle  up  into  a  pile." 

«  Why,  Martha,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  "  where  do  you 
get  such  notions  ?" 

"  At  the  brick  house,"  replied  Martha,  "  and  I've  got  a 
great  many  more  of  them.  I  wish  papa  would  go  to  the 
brick  house  with  me  and  see  them." 

Mr.  Moxon  drew  his  chair-  to  the  bedside  of  his  child, 
and  took  her  worn  little  hand  in  his  own,  hoping  to  quiet 
her  nervousness  and  to  induce  her  to  go  to  sleep.  The 
room  was  dark,  and  the  younger  child  was  already  sleeping 
in  the  arms  of  her  mother.  The  silence  of  the  group 
seemed  to  grow  deeper  and  deeper,  until  sleep  would  almost 
have  claimed  possession  of  them  all,  but  there  were  two 
who  were  wakeful  still. 

Mr.  Moxon  knew  that  Martha  was  not  asleep,  and  Martha 
knew  that  he  was  not.  At  last  both  father  and  daughter 
were  seized  with  an  involuntary  shudder  at  the  same  moment. 


116  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"  He  went  by  then,"  whispered  the  child. 
"  Who  went  by  ?"  inquired  the  father. 
"  The  black  man.    Didn't  you  see  himy  papa  ?" 
"I  felt  something — something  like  a  shadow,"  replied 
the  father.     "  Do  you  smell  anything,  Martha  ?" 

The  little  child  snuffed  the  air  with  her  thin  and  sensitive 
nostrils,  and  said  "  Yes." 
"What  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  child,  "  but  I've  smelled  that 
a  great  many  times  at  the  brick  house." 

"  You  don't  mean,  Martha,  that  you  smell  that  when  you 
see  him  at  the  brick  house,  do  you  ?" 

When  the  utterance  of  this  question  was  completed,  the 
father  found,  to  his  surprise,  that,  by  one  of  those  strange 
transitions  incident  to  a  highly  nervous  organization,  the 
child  had  passed  into  the  realm  of  sleep,  as  though  an  an 
gel  had  shut  the  door  of  the  senses  with  a  noiseless  push ; 
and  the  little  dreamer's  "  biick  house"  had  opened  of  itself, 
and  given  her  sudden  entrance. 

Mr.  Moxon  still  held  J;he  little  hand  within  his  own,  and 
busied  his  mind  with  tne  strange  revelations  of  his  child. 
The  coincidence  of  the  shudder  that  visited  her  and  him 
self,  at  the  same  moment,  was  called  up.  There  was  an 
influence  that  affected  him  and  his  child  alike — that  was 
certain.  She  saw  what  she  called  a  black  man,  and  he  felt 
that  something  had  passed  his  window  that  had  cast  a  sha 
dow  upon  him — a  shadow  felt,  not  seen.  They  had  "both 
been  affected  by  a  peculiar  perfume  also.  What  was  it  all  ? 
Were  they  alone  touched  by  these  strange  influences? 
Were  those  influences  the  offspring  of  disease?  If  not, 
were  they — but  no,  they  could  not  be  !  So,  carefully  rising, 
and  relinquishing  the  hand  that  had  grown  soft,  warm,  and 
moist  within  his  own,  the  minister  made  a  place  for  the 
repose  of  the  other  child,  where  the  mother  silently  laid 
her.  The  parents  then  withdrew  together,  and  sought  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  117 

only  other  room  they  possessed,  that  they  might,  without 
disturbing  the  children,  unite  in  their  evening  devotions. 

The  prayer  uttered  by  Mr.  Moxon  that  evening  was  one 
that  his  wife  did  not  entirely  understand.  He  prayed  for 
the  forgiveness  of  sins  that  had  possibly  been  committed 
unwittingly.  This  was  something  that  she  did  not  compre 
hend,  especially  as  the  prayer  was  uttered  with  remarkable 
fervor  and  deep  solemnity.  Then  he  prayed  mysteriously 
with  reference  to  the  presence,  the  wiles,  and  the  power  of 
the  great  adversary  of  souls,  and  seemed  burdened  with 
some  vague  and  overshadowing  apprehension  of  evil.  The 
prayer  was  long,  and  Mrs.  Moxon,  wearied  with  long  watch- 
ings,  and  the  new  and  strange  influences  within  and  around 
her,  was  glad  when  it  was  concluded,  and  immediately 
sought  her  bed. 

The  father,  however,  went  to  Martha's  bedside,  and 
drawing  a  chair  near  to  it,  leaned  over  to  listen  to  her 
breathing,  and  to  catch  any  dream-born  whisper  that  might 
find  utterance.  There  the  poor  man  sat  for  hours  in  the 
darkness,  sometimes  looking  through  the  window  heaven 
ward,  then  out  into  the  night,  \|pon  shapes  that  formed 
themselves  of,  and  clothed  themselves  with,  the  darkness, 
and  then  moved  and  melted  into  nothingness.  Then  he 
came  back  to  the  child,  and  at  last  her  peaceful  breathing 
began  to  have  a  soothing  influence  upon  him,  and,  leaving 
her,  he  retired  to  rest. 


CHAPTER   X. 

FOB  many  years  after  the  settlement  of  Agawam,  a  reli 
gious  meeting  was  held  every  Wednesday,  at  which  the 
minister  pronounced  what  was  denominated  a  "  lecture." 
On  these  lecture  days,  all  the  people  were  expected  to 
be  in  attendance,  precisely  the  same  as  on  Sabbath  days, 
though  the  day  was  treated  in  no  respect  as  holy  time. 
The  orders  of  the  General  Court  were  all  published  on  lec 
ture  days,  for  the  benefit  of  the  people ;  and  all  those  pub 
lic  announcements  were  made  which  were  of  interest  to  the 
plantation.  A  portion  of  the  day  was  regarded  by  the 
apprentices  and  children  as  their  own,  for  the  purposes  of 
play.  Thus  the  term  "  lecture  day "  early  became  the 
synonym  for  holiday,  and  Wednesday  was  called  by  its  real 
name  hardly  once  in  a  twelvemonth. 

Lecture  day  was  a  great  day  for  Peter  Trimble.  A  multi 
tude  of  the  plans  concocted  in  his  fertile  little  brain  had 
reference  to  that  day.  During  the  week  of  Holyoke's  stay 
in  the  plantation,  the  people  were  so  far  diverted  from 
observing  the  operations  of  this  young  mischief  maker,  that 
he  was  enabled  to  arrange  the  preliminaries  for  a  grand 
game  of  fun  that  so  excited  his  imagination  that  he  could 
hardly  sleep  meantime ,  and  when  at  last  lecture  day  came, 
and  the  lecture  was  over,  he  was  observed  giving  sly 
whispers  to  such  boys  as  were  in  the  secret,  and  all  moved 
off  towards  their  homes. 

Peter,  as  soon  as  he  had  arrived  at  his  home,  went  back 
of  it,  and,  under  the  cover  of  trees  and  shrubbery,  pro 
ceeded  down  the  river  bank,  until  he  had  arrived  opposite 


THE     BAT     PATH.  119 

to  the  house  of  Woodcock,  when  he  approached  and  entered 
it.  He  knew  that  Woodcock  was  absent,  at  work  in  the 
fields,  for  he  had  not  been  at  the  lecture,  and  his  canoe  was 
not  at  the  river's  bank. 

He  found  Mary  Woodcock  alone,  and  amusing  herself 
by  jumping  over  a  stick,  with  which  she  had  bridged  the 
chasm  between  two  benches.  The  joy  that  lighted  her 
features,  as  Peter  made  his  appearance,  and  her  quick  for- 
getfulness  of  all  his  insults,  showed  how  much  she  had  suf 
fered  in  her  loneliness,  and  how  thoroughly  sympathetic 
with  the  boy  nature  she  had  become. 

Peter  came  into  the  house,  taking  steps  that  defined  long, 
stealthy  curves,  as  they  rose  and  fell,  from  tip-toe  to  tip-toe, 
and  with  a  countenance  that  indicated  the  highest  possible 
degree  of  pleasurable  excitement. 

"What  is't  now  ?"  inquired  Mary,  eagerly. 

"  You  know  Tim  Bristol,  Mary  ?» 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  know  what  a  regular  brag  he  is,  don't  you  ?" 

"  He  don't  brag  any  more'n  you  do,  Peter  Trimble — not 
a  single  bit." 

"  Well,  you  know  he  thinks  lots  of  you,  any  way,  Mary, 
and  he's  always  bragging  about  you." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  you  ever  heard  him  say  anything  'bout 
me  in  the  world,"  said  Mary,  sharply. 

"  Well/  Now  /"  exclaimed  Peter,  cramming  two  whole 
sentences  and  two  powerful  interjections  into  two  words ; 
"  if  I  have  heard  Tim  Bristol  brag  how  smart  you  are,  and 
how  handsome  you  are,  and  how  he  likes  you,  once,  I've 
heard  him  do  it — oh !  lots  and  lots  of  times !"  And  Peter 
clinched  his  well  driven  lie  with  a  violent  nod  of  his 
head. 

"  Well,  that's  none  of  your  business,"  said  Mary,  begin 
ning  to  feel  an  entirely  new  partiality  for  Tim. 

"  Well,  I  know  that,"  responded  Peter  in  a  candid  tone, 


120  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  but  he  carries  it  too  fur.  Oh !  you  ought  to  hear  him 
brag." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  he  brags — what  does  he  brag  about  ?" 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  hear  him  once ;  you've  no  idea ! 
Brag  ?  He  don't  do  anything  but  brag,  and  he  brags  about 
such  droll  things.  What  do  you  s'pose  he  said  t'other 
day  ?  Says  he  to  me,  '  I'll  bet  three  shillings  that  Mary 
Woodcock  can  run  faster  than  you  can  ;'  and  says  I  to 
him,  '  I'll  bet  three  shillings  she  can't.'  Says  he,  '  I'll  bet 
she  can ;'  says  I,  '  I'll  bet  she  can't.'  Says  he,  '  I  know  she 
can ;'  says  I,  '  I  know  she  can't.'  Says  he,  '  you  darsn't 
bet ;'  says  I,  '  I  darst.'  Says  he,  '  put  up  your  money ;'  says 
I, '  Mary  Woodcock  won't  run  with  me,  and  you  can't  make 
her  run.'  Says  he, '  you  darsn't  run,  and  you  darsn't  bet ;' 
says  I,  '  if  you'll  get  her  to  run,  I'll  take  the  bet,  and  give 
her  a  rod  the  start.'" 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  asked  Mary  eagerly. 

"  Well,  I  kind  a'  backed  him  down,  I  thought,  but  I  see 
him  jest  now,  and  he  said  I  could  ask  you  if  I  was  a'  mind 
to,  but  I  told  him  you  wouldn't  run  with  me,  and  you 
wouldn't  dare  to  run." 

"  Pho  !  Sho  !"  exclaimed  the  girl  contemptuously,  "  I 
hope  I  ain't  afeared  o'  you.  Did  Tim  say  he  knew  I  could 
run  faster'n  you  could  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  did,  and  he  stuck  to  it  like  a  nailer,  too,"  said 
Peter,  with  one  of  his  half  rotary  nods  of  emphasis. 

"  You  must  be  smart,  to  think  I'm  afeared  o'  you,"  said 
the  girl. 

"  Well !  I  don't  s'pose  you're  afeared  of  me,  but  you 
darsn't  run  with  me,"  said  Peter,  with  one  of  his  most 
confident  nods. 

"  I  darst,  too,"  responded  Mary,  getting  excited. 

"  You  darsn't  run  this  afternoon,  any  way,"  said  Peter. 

"  I  will,  if  you'll  go  where  dad  can't  see  me,  nor  nobody 
else,"  said  Mary,  decidedly. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  121 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  settlement  there  was  a  mound- 
like  elevation,  that  rose  on  all  sides  from  the  level  of  the 
meadow,  and  spread  to  the  extent  of  several  acres  into  a 
beautiful  plateau.  This  eminence,  which  is  now  popularly 
known  by  the  inappropriate  name  of  Round  Hill,  was,  from 
the  peculiarity  of  its  position,  a  favorite  resort  for  the  mis 
chief-making  boys  of  the  settlement.  It  was  elevated  above 
the  fields,  so  that  no  one  in  the  vicinity  could  see  the  actors, 
especially  as  their  operations  were  carried  on  near  the  middle 
of  the  plateau.  At,  and  near  this  point,  a  careful  observer 
would  have  discovered  various  mysterious  excavations, 
booths,  corn-cobs,  egg  shells,  partridge  feathers,  <fcc.,  which 
showed  that  it  was  a  favorite  resort  for  a  class  of  boys  that 
enter  into  the  constitution  of  every  community,  in  whom 
the  passions  for  mischief  and  wild  housekeeping  are  predo 
minant. 

The  race  for  which  Peter  had  made  his  arrangements  was 
appointed  for  this  place,  and  the  adroit  manner  in  which  he 
had  surmounted  all  difficulties  may  be  imagined  from 
the  means  by  which  he  secured  the  attendance  of  Mary 
Woodcock.  It  did  not  occur  to  her,  for  an  instant,  that 
there  was  any  actual  impropriety  in  her  engaging  in  the 
race,  and  her  vanity  and  her  love  of  exciting  play  settled 
the  question,  in  precisely  the  manner  which  Peter  had  cal 
culated  upon.  Accordingly,  Peter  told  her  where  they 
could  go,  and  promised  that  no  one  should  be  present,  save 
perhaps  a  few  of  the  boys,  "  to  see  that  it  was  done  all  fair." 

Peter  led  his  victim  nearly  to  the  river's  bank,  and  then 
pushed  northward,  under  such  covers  as  the  land  afforded, 
and,  after  a  brisk  walk  of  about  a  mile,  reached  the  point  of 
assignation.  There  were  half  a  dozen  boys  in  waiting  to 
receive  them,  drawn  up  in  a  line,  with  Tim  Bristol  a  few 
paces  in  front. 

"  Lungolunt !"  challenged  the  half  snickering  Tim. 

"  Lungoloit !"  responded  Peter. 

6 


122  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Liukumlilligo  !"  said  Tim. 

"  Lillikumdaddles  !"  responded  Peter. 

"  Them's  the  countersigns,"  said  Peter  to  Mary,  in  a  side 
explanation. 

"  How  goes  the  war  ?"  interrupted  Tim. 

"  Three  to  the  right,  and  three  to  the  left,  and  three  to 
the  chap  I  took  you  for,"  responded  Peter,  clapping  his 
hands  three  times,  and  giving  a  long,  shrill  whistle,  with  an 
instrument  composed  of  two  lips,  two  rows  of  teeth,  and  a 
"brace  of  dirty  fingers. 

This  cabalistic  exercise  was  one  of  the  proudest  products 
of  Peter's  genius.  It  had  cost  him  infinite  invention  to  con 
trive  the  words,  and  give  to  them  the  mysterious  music  that 
should  insure  their  success  with  his  companions.  The  words 
were  only  known  to  a  select  few,  who  became,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  a  secret  society.  When  any  of  the  privileged 
number  met,  especially  if  small  boys  or  girls  were  within 
hearing,  the  charmed  signals  were  exchanged  with  the 
utmost  gravity,  and  with  an  effect  on  juvenile  imaginations 
that  was  quite  bewildering.  Two  or  three  sharp  little  fel 
lows  had  caught  the  words,  and  would  go  back  and  forth 
among  themselves,  solemnly  delivering  them  in  challenge 
and  response. 

These  interesting  ceremonials  over,  all  formality  was  drop 
ped,  and  the  boys  gathered  around  the  new  comers. 

"She's  jest  about  tuckered  me  out,  coming  up  here," 
said  Peter,  wiping  his  forehead  on  his  shirt  sleeve.  "  You've 
no  idea  how  she  puts." 

"  You're  a'  goin'  to  back  out  now,  are  you  ?"  said  Tim, 
with  a  wink. 

"When  you  catch  me  backing  out,"  said  Peter  indignantly, 
"  you'll  catch  your  great-grandmother  ridin'  a  trottin'  ridge 
pole ;  now  you'd  better  b'lieve  that ;"  and,  as  the  alterna 
tive  seemed  extremely  improbable,  it  was  admitted  on  all 
hands  that  Peter  would  not  back  out. 


THE     BAT     PATH.  123 

"  Dad'll  get  back  'fore  I  do,  if  I  don't  get  through  pretty- 
soon,"  said  Mary,  half  whispering  to  Peter. 

"  Well — here's  the  ground,"  said  Peter.  "  I  start  here, 
and  you  start  there  (measuring  off  five  paces  and  drawing 
a  mark  through  the  leaves  with  his  bare  heel).  That's  jest 
a  rod  the  start.  Now  when  Tim  Bristol  says  'ratta-Jaw, 
ratta-6(m,  ratta-Jcm,  Tatla-biddle  slap !' — you  start  when  he 
gets  to  '  biddle — slap  !'  " 

"  Yes,''  said  Tim-,  "  and  run  jest  as  tight  as  you  can 
cut." 

Mary  had  already  taken  her  place,  and  her  eye  was  wild 
with  excitement,  while  a  bright  red  spot  burnt  on  either 
cheek. 

"  Hold  my  cap,  now,"  said  Peter  to  the  boys,  spitting  on 
his  hands,  and  winking  in  a  very  comical  way. 

"  Are  you  all  ready  ?"  inquired  Tim. 

"All  ready  !"  said  Peter,  spitting  on  his  hands  again,  but 
Mary  was  silent,  and  showed  by  her  position  that  she  was 
only  waiting  the  word  for  starting. 

"  Now !"  exclaimed  Tim,  "  Ratta-fom,  ratta-Jcm,  ratta- 
ban,  rdtfa-biddle  slap !" 

Off  flew  the  little  girl  with  every  muscle  strained  to  the 
highest  tension.  She  bounded  over  the  leaves  like  a  deer, 
her  long  hair  flying  wildly  back  from  her  head,  and  her 
scanty  skirt  fairly  curbing  the  reach  of  her  steps.  Peter 
gained  upon  her,  and  the  other  boys  kept  well  alongside, 
cheering  at  the  top  of  their  lungs.  "  Lean  !"  cried  Tim  ; 
"  cut !"  shouted  another,  and  the  girl  impulsively  grasped 
the  skirt  of  her  frock  and  raised  it  to  give  her  feet  more 
freedom  of  motion. 

The  first  sight  that  Peter  caught  of  her  lithe  little  limbs 
threw  him  into  convulsions.  He  dashed  himself  upon  the 
ground,  and  gave  himself  up  to  laughter  the  most  ex,ces- 
sive.  He  rolled,  and  screamed,  and  beat  his  head  against 
a  tree,  as  if  he  were  a  ram  and  the  tree  his  foe.  In  a 


124  THE     BAY    PATH. 

moment  the  other  boys  were  on  the  ground  near  him,  as 
crazy  with  laughter  as  himself. 

This  was  the  culminating  point  of  the  fun  of  the  occa 
sion.  Peter  had  witnessed  her  habit,  when  running  with 
fear,  or  any  other  excitement,  and  the  whole  affair  was 
arranged  by  him  in  order  to  give  the  boys  a  chance,  as  he 
said,  "  to  see  the  smartest  pair  of  drumsticks  that  ever 
come  over." 

Mary  ran  but  a  few  rods  before  she  became  conscious 
that  the  race  was  relinquished ;  and,  turning  on  her  heel, 
she  stood  silent  as  *a  statue,  regarding  the  insane  group. 
She  still  held  her  skirt  in  her  hand,  and  first  suspected  the 
cause  of  the  uproar  when  she  let  it  fall.  Then  the  hot  blood 
mounted  to  her  face,  and,  burning  there  a  moment,  retired 
and  left  her  ashy  pale.  In  an  instant  the  whole  plot  had 
opened  upon  her,  and  shame,  rage,  and  all  the  fiercest  im 
pulses  of  passion,  took  possession  of  her.  She  looked  down 
before  her,  and  saw  a  staff  that  some  walker  of  the  woods 
had  cut  and  trimmed,  and,  seizing  it,  she  started  back,  and 
Peter  had  but  just  time  to  escape  the  hard  blow  that  she 
intended  for  him  by  a  dexterous  dodge. 

The  next  moment  he  was  on  his  feet,  with  the  infuriated 
child  in  full  pursuit,  and  then  commenced  the  real  race  of 
the  day.  No  dodges  and  no  rate  of  speed  availed  the  be 
trayer.  The  girl  seemed  clothed  with  wings,  and  fairly 
flew  down  upon  him,  beating  him  mercilessly.  All  his  arti 
fices  availed  him  nothing.  He  dodged,  and  tripped  her 
heels,  and  threw  himself  down  for  her  to  tumble  over  him, 
in  vain.  At  length  she  drove  him  from  the  abrupt  bank  of 
the  hill,  and,  as  she  was  upon  him  in  an  instant,  he  had  no 
choice  but  to  start  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  He  had 
run  but  a  few  rods  when  a  man  leaped  into  the  path  before 
him,  and  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

Peter  really  felt  a  sense  of  relief  upon  finding  himself  in 
the  hands  of  Elizur  Holyoke,  who,  while  holding  him  with 


THE     BAY     PATH.  125 

one  hand,  seized  Mary's  descending  weapon  with  the  other, 
and  wrenched  it  from  her  grasp. 

Mary  Pynchon  and  her  brother  had  both  joined  the 
group  meantime  ;  and  the  moment  Mary  Woocfcock  caught 
sight  of  the  former1  she  ran  to  her,  threw  her  arms  around 
her,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  dress  burst  into  a  distress 
ing  paroxysm  of  tears. 

Mary  took  the  trembling  little  girl  by  the  hand,  led  her 
aside,  and  seated  her  upon  a  bank  that  she  might  rest,  and 
be  able  to  tell  the  story  of  the  afternoon's  adventures.  This 
she  did  at  last,  with  many  sobs  and  much  shame;  and  while 
Holyoke  led  Peter  by  an  unnecessary  expansive  ear  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  Mary  conducted  the  little  girl  to 
her  father's  lonely  cabin,  talking  to  her  quietly  and  sooth 
ingly  as  she  went,  and  giving  her  such  counsel  as  her  cir 
cumstances  required. 

The  latter  pair  had  been  in  the  cabin  but  a  few  minutes 
when  Woodcock  came  in.  He  knew  by  the  appearance  of 
his  daughter  that  something  serious  had  occurred,  and,  with 
evident  trepidation,  asked  Mary  Pynchon  what  it  was. 
She  sat  down,  and  related  the  story,  giving  the  blame  to 
whom  it  belonged,  and  exculpating  his  daughter  as  fur  as 
possible. 

"  My  God !  Mary,  you'll  kill  me  !"  exclaimed  Woodcock, 
and,  sinking  upon  a  seat,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  groaned  heavily. 

This  started  the  child's  tears  again.  She  was  already 
hysterical,  and  the  spectacle  presented  by  both  father  and 
daughter  was  very  painful  to  its  only  witness.  Woodcock 
started  up  at  last,  and  said,  "  I  guess  I'll  go  and  finish  off 
that  boy." 

"  I  beg  you'll  not  touch  the  boy,"  said  Mary  Pynchon. 
"  He  shall  be  taken  care  of." 

"  Miss  Pynchon,"  said  Woodcock,  "  do  you  r'ally  mean 
that  ?" 


126  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Mary,  firmly. 

"'  Do  you  know  how  I  feel  ?"  inquired  Woodcock. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  feel  very  indignant,  and  I  cer 
tainly  do  not  blame  you  for  it." 

"  Do  you  know  that  I'd  rather  starve  for  three  days  than 
lose  a  grip  into  that  boy's  top-knot  ?" 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  replied  Mary,  smiling  at  his  rude 
earnestness. 

"  And  you  don't  want  me  to  touch  him  ?" 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  touch  him." 

"I'm  glad  on't !"  exclaimed  Woodcock,  brightening  up, 
"'cause  now,  Miss  Pynchon,  I  can  jest  show  you  how  John 
Woodcock  remembers  a  good  turn.  My  hand  aches  to  get 
hold  of  that  boy  (and  he  shook  his  big  fist  mightily),  but  I 
shan't  touch  him,  'cause  you  don't  want  to  have  me."  And 
he  smiled  grimly,  as  if  he  had  by  a  mighty  effort  achieved  a 
great  moral  triumph,  that  brought  him  pleasure,  pain,  and 
pride  in  equal  proportions. 

Mary  thanked  him  for  his  promise  in  regard  to  the  boy, 
but  she  did  not  feel  entirely  easy  as  to  his  child.  She 
thought  it  might  be  assuming  too  much  to  dictate  in  what 
manner  a  father  should  treat  his  daughter,  and,  as  she 
could  think  of  no  better  way  to  effect  her  wishes,  she 
stooped  and  kissed  the  child,  and  leaving  with  her  a  whis 
pered  exhortation,  bade  the  pair  a  good  evening. 

Woodcock  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  arrested  her 
departure  by  a  slight  touch  upon  her  arm.  She  turned, 
and  saw  a  pair  of  eyes  suffused  with  emotion,  and  their 
owner  making  futile  attempts  to  speak. 

"  Miss  Pynchon,"  said  he  at  length,  "  you  needn't  'a  done 
that.  I  shouldn't  'a  touched  her." 

Mary  pressed  his  rough  hand  in  silence,  and  walked 
hastily  homewards.  When  she  arrived  there,  she  found 
quite  a  concourse  of  those  who  had  collected  to  learn  what 
the  trouble  was ;  and  Peter  stood  trembling  in  the  midst. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  127 

Mr.  Pynchon  was  engaged  in  the  examination  of  one  of 
the  rogue's  accomplices,  who,  as  he  was  rather  a  victim 
than  an  accomplice,  was  telling  the  whole  story  of  Peter's 
operations  with  entire  correctness.  Mary  heard  enough  to 
learn  that  the  truth  was  coming  fairly  out,  and  then  left 
the  room. 

"  You  say,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon  to  the  boy,  "  that  the  bet 
that  you  tell  of  was  all  flax." 

"  Nothin'  but  flax,"  answered  the  witness. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  inquired  the  magistrate. 

"I  mean  it  was  just  vamped  up  for  fun,"  answered  the 
boy. 

"Peter  Trimble,"  said  the  magistrate,  addressing  that 
distinguished  lad,  "  I  think  I  understand  your  case  pretty 
well.  You  are  evidently  in  want  of  a  course  of  strong  dis 
cipline.  TUe  lies  you  have  told  within  the  past  week  are 
enough  alone  to  call  for  ten  lashes,  and  the  operations  of 
to-day  call  for  punishment  more  serious  than  that.  As  you 
are  of  no  particular  use  to  your  master,  and  are  inclined  to 
bet  without  money,  I  think  you  should  be  made  to  work 
out  your  bet  for  the  benefit  of  those  you  have  injured. 
You  will  work  for  John  Woodc'ock,  and  be  under  his 
conti'ol  for  one  month.  If  you  behave  well,  and  drop  your 
lying,  your  betting,  and  your  tricks,  during  your  punish 
ment,  you  will  then  be  released.  Otherwise,  you  will  have 
another  month  of  the  same  treatment." 

Poor  Peter  received  his  sentence  with  a  sad  heart.  A 
month  with  John  Woodcock !  It  was  a  cloud  that  hung 
between  him  and  all  the  mischief  of  life.  He  could  not 
look  at  it,  and  so  stood  amidst  the  joking  crowd,  and 
screwed  his  fists  into  his  eyes  strongly  and  persistently, 
as  if  the  fountain  of  tears  lay  very  far  back,  and  he  were 
boring  for  water. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

GREAT  was  the  joy  in  the  settlement  at  Agawam  when 
it  became  known  that  Holyoke  had  determined  to  unite 
himself  to  the  fortunes  of  the  plantation,  as  well  as  to  its 
fairest  flower. 

He  had  only  allowed  himself  a  week^fer  his  visit,  and  had 
made  his  promise  to  the  two  gentlemen  who  accompanied 
him  to  return  with  them  at  the  close  of  that  period.  They 
had  accomplished  their  object,  in  seeing  the  country,  and 
had  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  able,  during  thfeir  stay,  to 
furnish  nearly  all  the  tables  in  the  settlement  with  game 
and  fish.  They  had  become*  tired  of  the  sport,  and  were 
ready  to  return ;  but  Holyoke  found  it  a  more  difficult  task 
to  leave  the  spot  associated  with  the  objects  of  his  love  and 
hope  than  he  had  anticipated,  and  circumstances  conspired 
in  favor  of  his  wishes,  and  kindly  lengthened  a  communion 
that  had  come  to  be  inexpressibly  sweet  to  him. 

Holyoke  and  Mary,  in  their  closing  interviews,  realized 
again,  in  its  endless  repetition,  that  enigma  of  love  pro" 
pounded  by  nearly  every  pair  in  the  prospect  of  marriage. 
He  loved  her  no  better  than  she  loved  him,  and  yet  he 
looked  forward  to  their  temporary  separation  with  a  degree 
of  pain  of  which  she  had  no  conception.  His  whole  being 
was  bathed  in  a  dream  of  bliss.  It  was  a  dream  that  ener 
vated  him, — that  undermined  his  strengh,  and  sapped  his 
firmest  and  noblest  purposes.  It  shut  out  the  future,  and 
the  great  practical  world  around  him.  His  existence  be 
came  purely  emotional,  and  his  emotions  were  all  sublimated 
by  the  purity  and  power  of  his  passion. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  129 

He  met  her,  at  first,  gaily,  and  with  the  ready  gallantry 
of  his  nature ;  but  each  succeeding  day  found  him  more 
and  more  silent,  until,  at  last,  he  would  have  been  content 
to  sit  speechless  for  hours  with  Mary's  hand  in  his  own,  or 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  She  became  to  him  an  angel, 
so  pure  and  perfect,  so  noble  and  so  good,  so  elevated  above 
all  earthly  contaminations  and  associations,  that  he  thought 
of  her  only  as  an  angel — a  spirit  of  light  and  joy,  of  beauty 
and  goodness.  She  was  the  subject  of  his  last  thought  as 
he  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep,  and  of  the  first  that  sprang  into 
resurrection  with  his  waking  consciousness.  His  whole 
being  was  full  of  her.  She  walked  in-  bright  beatitude 
through  all  his  dreams,  and  shaped  his  thoughts  to  forms 
of  beauty  and  words  of  music.  She  had  wrought  upon 
him  the  highest  sanctification  of  an  earthly  love.  A  coarse 
or  ribald  phrase,  a  tainted  jest,  or  an  unchaste  suggestion, 
as  now  and  then  one  reached  his  ear,  was  pointed  with  a 
sting  of  the  most  painful  offence.  Bright,  beautiful  dream! 
Fair  flower  of  paradise  !  Sweet  glimpse  of  Eden  !  Ineffa 
bly  precious  experience !  conceived  in  illusion,  wrought  into 
form  by  frailty,  and  condemned  by  reason,  yet  enthroned 
as  the  central  object  in  memory's  gallery  for  ever ! 

Mary,  who  had  done  all  her  dreaming  previously,  had 
now  become  intensely  practical.  She  was  rather  anxious, 
on  the  whole,  to  have  Holyoke  depart.  The  plans  of  her 
life  were  settled,  and  she  desired  to  engage  in  their  execu 
tion.  While  Holyoke  delayed  his  departure,  and  controlled 
her  movements  and  occupied  her  time  by  his  presence,  she 
could  not  take  a  step  towards  preparing  a  home  for  him,  an 
institution  of  which  he  had  become  entirely  careless,  even 
to  forgetfulness.  The  business  of  life  had  begun  with  her. 
The  garment  of  care  was  already  put  on,  and  she  waited 
only  for  her  lover  to  leave  her,  to  adjust  and  fasten  it,  and 
in  it  to  go  about  the  fulfilment  of  her  mission.  Sometimes 
she  shocked  him  by  some  homely  or  excessively  practical 

6* 


130  THE     BAY     PATH. 

suggestion,  or  rallied  him  upon  his  drowsiness,  and  not 
unfrequently  dissipated  a  heaven  of  emotion  by  inquiring 
very  tenderly  whether  he  were  sick  or  in  pain.  So  that  the 
dearer  she  became  to  him,  the  more  incomprehensible  she 
appeared,  and  the  more  she  shocked  him  by  the  utterance 
of  common-places,  and  titbits  of  worldly  wisdom  and  small 
maxims  of  economy,  that  showed  that  her  thoughts  had, 
for  the  time,  become  in  a  degree  released  from  him,  and 
absorbed  in  plans  for  his  future  comfort  and  happiness. 

Upon  Holyoke  love  had  the  effect  of  intoxication,  while 
Mary  felt  that  her  spirit  had  been  strengthened  in  its  tem 
per  and  tone  by  the  same  power,  and  fitted  by  it,  in  some 
reliable  degree,  to  perform  the  duties  and  overcome  the 
difficulties  of  life.  They  had  sat  side  by  side,  and  respect 
ively  drank  strength  and  weakness  from  the  same  fountain. 
He  had  grown  forgetful  of  his  manhood,  his  high  resolutions 
and  his  noble  enterprises,  wrapped  in  the  rosy  folds  of  a 
present  as  delirious  as  it  was  delicious,  while  she,  loving  no 
less,  had  grown  more  thoughtful,  more  provident,  and  more 
womanly,  in  her  comprehension  of  the  duties  that  lay  before 
her,  and  the  destiny  to  which  she  had  devoted  herself. 

The  circumstances  that  conspired  to  lengthen  Holyoke's 
stay  in  the  plantation  were  connected  with  Mr.  Pynchon's 
departure  for  the  Bay,  in  order  to  discharge  there  his  duties 
as  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Assistants  in  the  colonial 
legislature.  While  this  was  the  leading  object  of  his  visit, 
the  visit  itself  was  an  opportunity  for  him  to  carry  forward 
the  furs  that  had  been  collected  during  the  season ;  and 
messages  had  been  sent  to  all  the  Indians  in  the  region  to 
bring  in  their  stock,  that  all  might  be  transported  together. 
Accordingly,  for  several  days  before  Holyoke's  departure, 
Mr.  Pynchon's  house  was  the  constant  scene  of  trade,  and 
large  quantities  of  peltry  were  accumulated.  The  house, 
and  the  whole  settlement,  in  fact,  exhibited,  during  these 
days,  an  appearance  which  now  finds  its  only  examples  in 


THE     BAY     PATH.  131 

the  new  villages  of  the  retiring  West.  Savages — men, 
women,  and  children — came  in,  in  throngs.  The  novelty 
of  the  settlement  had  not  yet  passed  away,  and  those  who 
did  not  come  to  sell  came  to  see. 

The  last  man  who  visited  Mr.  Pynchon,  previous  to  'his 
departure,  was  John  Woodcock.  Taking  him  a  consider 
able  distance  aside,  he  said,  "Square  Pynchon,  what  did 
you  send  that  boy  to  work  with  me  for  ?" 

"  To  cure  him  of  his  tricks,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  Well,  I  felt  worse  worked  up  'bout  that,  than  anything 
that's  happened  to  me  in  some  time,"  continued  Wood 
cock,  with  a  mortified  air,  "  and  I  wouldn't  'a  stood  it  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  your  Mary." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased  with  the  disposal  I 
made  of  him,  and  that  it  would  be  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  for  Peter." 

"  What  do  I  want  to  do  a  good  thing  for  Peter  for — a 
little  scaliwag  that  ought  to  be  ketched  in  a  trap  like  a 
musquash,  and  have  his  head  stove  in  with  a  boot-heel? 
Be  I  the  jail,  or  the  stocks,  or  the  whippin'-post  ?" 

"I  am  not  responsible  for  your  choosing  to  misunder 
stand  me,  Woodcock  ;  and  if  you  do  not  wish  to  have  the 
boy  work  for  you,  I  will  assign  him  to  some  one  else,  or 
change  his  punishment  to  whipping,"  responded  Mr.  Pyn 
chon. 

"I  guess  I  understand  you,  Square,"  said  Woodcock. 
"  I  don't  s'pose  you  meant  to  say  it  in  so  many  words  that 
John  Woodcock's  a  hard  nut,  and'll  put  that  boy  through 
purgatory,  but  that's  what  it  amounts  to.  Now  I  haint 
any  notion  of  givin'  the  boy  up,  but  I  wanted  to  show  you 
that  I've  got  feelin's,  and  can  read  most  kinds  of  writin'." 

"Well,  John,  you're  a  strange  man.  It  is  very  hard 
suiting  you,  and  it  is  very  hard  for  you  to  suit  us.  By  the 
way,  have  you  satisfied  Mr.  Moxon's  claim  for  damages 
yet  ?" 


132  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"No,  Square,  you  know  I  hav'n't,  you  know  I  never  will." 

"  Very  well,  you  must  not  complain  at  the  consequences. 
You  know  that  I  feel  friendly  towards  you,  and  you  know 
that  the  law  will  be  executed  in  this  plantation,  if  there  are 
men  enough  here  to  execute  it." 

"  There  ain't  enough  men  here  to  execute  that  thing  on 
me,"  replied  Woodcock,  with  a  nod  of  decision  at  every 
second  word,  and  a  strong  scowl  of  contempt. 

"Go  your  way,  Woodcock — you  seem  determined  to 
make  trouble  for  yourself  and  everybody  else."  Thus  saying, 
Mr.  Pynchon  bade  him  good-bye,  and  entered  the  house  to 
take  leave  of  his  family. 

Already  the  weaker  animals,  loaded  down  with  their 
packs,  were  filing  along  the  street,  and  turning  into  the 
Bay  Path,  to  get  a  start  of  those  possessing  better  speed 
and  bottom.  Each  rider  had  his  own  friends  to  take  leave 
of,  and  convey  messages  for,  and  a  very  lively  morning  it 
was  on  every  hand.  At  last,  Mr.  Pynchon  took  his  horse's 
rein  upon  his  arm,  and,  with  John  at  his  side,  moved  off, 
while  Holyoke  and  Mary  followed  in  the  same  manner — 
John  to  receive  some  final  directions  in  the  management  of 
affairs  at  home,  and  to  be  Mary's  company  back,  and  Mary 
to  part  with  her  lover. 

The  lovers  walked  for  some  time  in  silence,  for  many  eyes 
were  upon  them.  As  soon  as  the  limits  of  the  neighbor 
hood  were  passed,  Holyoke  exclaimed  with  a  sigh,  "  The 
Autumn!  It  seems  a  very  long  time  till  then  !" 

"  A  very  short  time  it  seems  to  me,"  responded  Mary, 
looking  into  his  face  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  How  can  you  say  that,  and  love  me  as  you  say  you 
love  me  ?"  inquired  Holyoke,  incredulously. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  have  me  talk  very  plainly  with  you, 
Eliznr?"  and  Mary  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  earnestness  and  a  simplicity 
that  art  never  simulated  and  may  never  simulate. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  133 

"  Always,  my  love." 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  very  glad  you  are  going  to  leave  me, 
and  I  hope  you  will  change  very  much  before  you  get  back 
again." 

"  Enigmas  again !"  and  Holyoke  smiled  in  a  very  sickly 
manner. 

"  No  enigmas  at  all,"  replied  Mary.  "  When  you  first 
came  here,  you  were  the  man  I  loved,  and  you  acted  like 
him ;  now  you  are  the  same  man  in  disguise,  and  it  is  my 
fault.  Then  you  were  all  life  and  ambition,  and  grace  and 
gallantry ;  now,  you  speak  to  no  one  but  me,  and  mope  all 
day." 

"  Then  you  are  sick  of  me  !" 

For  this  speech  Holyoke  received  a  look  that  he  under 
stood.  It  had  been  repeated  several  times  during  his  visit, 
whenever  he  had  given  utterance  to  an  unworthy  suspicion. 
Begging  her  pardon  at  once,  he  asked  her  to  explain  the 
ideas  she  intended  to  convey. 

"  You  men,"  said  Mary,  "  lead  a  busy,  rough  life.  Your 
minds  are  occupied  by  great  enterprises  that  engross  your 
time,  your  strength,  and  your  best  ingenuity.  When  you 
are  thus  engaged  in  business,  love  is  an  intruder  or,  per 
haps,  a  favored  guest,  who  sits  at  your  table,  and  takes  your 
hand  at  morning  and  evening,  and  sees  you  no  more.  But 
let  love  find  your  minds  vacant,  and  you  give  yourselves 
over  to  it  until  it  possesses  you,  and  you  forget  every  other 
relation  in  the  one  that  is  sweetest.  There  is  nothing 
natural  or  healthy  in  such  a  condition.  You  think  I  am 
cold — that  I  do  not  even  appreciate  the  intensity  of  your 
love.  I  have  shocked  you  often,  and  always  with  the  best 
intentions,  when  I  have  had  any  definite  intentions  at  all. 
I  might  have  become  just  as  insane — I  pray  you  forgive  the 
word — as  you,  had  I  not  possessed  a  corrective  of  the  natu 
ral  tendencies,  in  my  household  cares  and  daily  duties ;  and 
I  bless  the  circumstances  that  kept  me  from  forgetting 


134  THE     BAY      PATH. 

myself  and  all  around  me  in  an  all-absorbing  passion.  I 
have  been  to  blame  for  not  insisting  that  you  should  go  out 
with  your  companions,  and  divide  your  thoughts  in  active 
pursuits." 

Poor  Holyoke  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  such  a  dissec 
tion  of  his  love.  It  humbled  him,  and  half  vexed  him — the 
more,  doubtless,  because  he  knew  that  Mary  was  right. 

As  he  said  nothing,  Mary  continued,  more  playfully,  "  It 
is  well  enough  for  a  lover  in  doubt  of  the  good  will  of  the 
object  of  his  suit,  to  be  timid  and  without  words,  but  for 
one  who  knows  he  possesses  the  heart  of  his  mistress  to  lose 
his  tongue  is  very  reliable  evidence  that  he  has,  temporarily 
at  least,  lost  his  reason." 

"Well,  Mary,"  said  Holyoke,  with  a  sigh  that  would 
have  seemed  painful  if  it  had  not  been  ludicrous,  "  I  hope  I 
shall  recover  from  this  in  time,  but  cold  water  makes  rather 
a  serious  bath  for  a  man  in  a  fever." 

"I  see,"  exclaimed  Mary,  "the  crisis  is  past!  That  last 
speech  is  decidedly  a  symptom  of  amendment." 

And  then  both,  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrousness  of  the 
scene,  and  a  realization  of  a  hundred  sillinesses  in  the  past, 
laughed  until  Holyoke's  horse,  apparently  astonished,  turned 
his  head  around  and  looked  them  in  the  face.  The  remain 
der  of  the  distance  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  was  occupied 
with  practical  Christian  conversation,  with  promises  of  daily 
remembrance  in  prayer,  and  with  a  conference  upon  mat 
ters  connected  with  an  event  which  it  had  been  decided 
should  take  place  in  the  following  autumn.  At  length  they 
saw  John  returning,  and  Holyoke,  pausing,  took  Mary's 
hand  within  his  own,  and  kissing  her  tenderly,  exclaimed, 
"  May  God  have  you  in  his  holy  keeping !"  Then  mounting 
his  horse  with  a  leap  that  showed  him  again  in  possession 
of  his  strength  and  his  resolution,  he  rode  briskly  away, 
and  left  Mary,  (oh !  inconsistency  of  human  nature !)  lonely, 
weak,  and  weeping,  to  walk  silently  back  to  the  almost 
forsaken  plantation. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE  freight  of  furs  had  hardly  retired  from  sight,  and 
the  last  Indian  stragglers  departed,  when  Mr.  Moxon 
appeared  at  his  door,  and  walked  briskly  towards  the  resi 
dence  of  the  newly  elected  constable,  John  Searles.  Call 
ing  Searles  to  the  door,  he  inquired  in  regard  to  the  dispo 
sition  that  had  been  made  of  Peter  Trimble.  He  had  heard 
of  it  before,  but  from  the  constable  he  learned  all  the  par 
ticulars. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it  was  extremely  unwise  in  Mr. 
Pynchon  to  place  that  boy  with  so  vile  a  man  as  Wood 
cock,"  said  Mr.  Moxon. 

The  new  constable  was  a  man  of  few  words,  large  frame, 
and  a  practical  turn  of  mind ;  and,  instead  of  enlarging  upon 
the  fact,  or  joining  in  any  discussion  in  regard  to  it,  he 
simply  said,  "  I  know  my  duty,  Mr.  Moxon,  and  I  do  it," — 
having  reference  to  his  agency  as  an  instrument  of  the  law 
in  placing  Peter  with  his  temporary  master. 

"  I  am  blaming  no  one,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  blandly — "  it 
is  a  question  of  wisdom  and  policy." 

"  I  didn't  ask  it — I  never  ask  it — it's  none  of  my  busi 
ness,"  responded  Searles,  without  moving  a  muscle^of  his 
body. 

Mr.  Moxon  saw  that  Searles  half  suspected  the  nature  of 
his  errand,  and  that  conciliation  was  out  of  the  question  in 
general,  and  out  of  that  question  in  particular.  There  was, 
therefore,  no  way  for  him  but  to  come  directly  to  the  point, 
and  he  did  this  the  more  readily  as  he  knew  his  man,  and 
had  entire  confidence  in  his  courage  and  efficiency.  Turning 


136  THE     BAY     PATH. 

slowly  on  his  heel,  and  walking  off  a  few  steps,  as  if  in 
thought,  he  came  back  and  said,  "I  believe,  John,  you 
have  a  warrant  from  Mr.  Pynchon  to  attach  the  body  of 
John  Woodcock,  who  has  failed  to  pay  the  damages  in  the 
slander  case." 

"  I  have,  sir,"  replied  Searles,  drawing  the  document  from 
his  pocket,  and  reading  a  sentence  from  it :  "  and  that  you 
keep  the  body  of  John  Woodcock  in  prison  of  irons  until 
he  shall  take  some  course  to  satisfy  the  said  George 
Moxon." 

"  You  may  execute  that  as  soon  as  you  choose." 

"  No  sooner  ?" 

"  You  will  execute  that  to-day,  sir." 

"Very  well,  sir;  just  as  you  say." 

"  And  in  regard  to  Peter  Trimble  ?" 

"  I  kjpav  my  duty,  sir." 

"  I  leave  you  to  do  it,"  said  the  minister  drily,  and  turned 
and  walked  away. 

Y-  John  Searles  walked  into  his  house,  and  read  over  the 
warrant  again,  sentence  by  sentence.  "  In  prison  of  irons," 
said  he  to  himself.  "I  hav'n't  any  prison  of  irons  except  a 
log  chain,  and  I  shall  have  to  use  a  rope,"  and  the  constable 
busied  himself  for  half  an  hour  in  finding  and  properly 
splicing  a  rope.  This,  after  coiling  it  into  the  smallest  pos 
sible  space,  he  thrust  into  his  coat  pocket,  in  company  with 
the  warrant,  and  shouldering  his  carefully  loaded  gun,  he 
walked  coolly  to  the  bank  of  the  river. 

J^My  all  the  planters  had  crossed  the  river  immediately 
after*Mr.  Pynchon's  departure,  to  labor  in  their  corn-fields, 
and  Woodcock  was  among  them.  Stepping  into  his  canoe 
the  constable  pushed  from  the  shore,  and  transported  him 
self  across  the  river.  Fastening  his  boat,  and  taking  his 
gun,  he  ascended  the  bank,  and  sought  the  field  where 
Woodcock  and  his  new  apprentice  were  at  work;  and 
before  the  former  could  fairly  look  up,  he  felt  a  light  tap 


THE     BAY     PATH.  137 

on  his  shoulder,  and  heard  the  words,  "You  are  my 
prisoner." 

"How  do  you  make  out  that  figur'?"  inquired  Wood 
cock. 

"  In  black  and  white,"  replied  the  constable,  drawing  the 
warrant  from  his  pocket.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  read  it  to 
you  ?" 

Peter  Trimble  was  all  eyes  and  ears,  until  suddenly 
reminded  of  his  duty  by  a  side  cut  from  Woodcock's  hoe- 
handle.  Searles  looked  through  the  document,  and  then 
read  as  follows : 

"  To  John  Searles,  constable  of  Springfield.  These  are 
in  his  majesty's  name  to  require  you  presently  uppon  the 
recite  hereof  that  you  attach  the  body  of  John  Woodcock 
uppon  an.  execution  granted  to  Mr  George  Moxon  by  the 
Jury  against  the  said  John  Woodcock  for  an  action  of 
slander:  and  that  you  keepe  his  body  in  prison  of  irons  until 
he  shall  take  some  course  to  satisfie  the  said  George 
Moxon :  or  else  if  he  neglect  or  refuse  to  take  a  ready 
course  to  satisfie  the  said  execution  of  <£6  13s  4d  granted 
by  the  jury  that  then  you  use  what  means  you  can  to  put 
him  out  to  service  and  labor  till  he  make  satisfaction  to  the 
said  Mr  George  Moxon  for  the  said  w£6  13s  4d,  and  also  to 
satisfie  yourself  for  such  charges  as  you  shall  be  at  for  the 
keeping  of  his  person  :  And  when  Mr  Moxon  and  yourself 
are  satisfied,  then  you  are  to  discharge  his  person  out  of 
prison.  Fail  not  at  your  peril.* 

"  WILLIAM  PYNCHON." 

"John  Searles,"  said  Woodcock  (hitting  Peter  an  entirely 
incidental  rap,  that  brought  both  of  the  boy's  hands  fP  his 
legs  as  if  he  had  caught  a  weasel  running  up  his  trousers), 
"you  and  I  never, had  a  gruff,  but  I  don't  stand  any  o'  that 
sort  o'  nonsense  f%o  you'd  better  scull  your  dug-out  over 
the  drink  again,  and  go  to  splittin'  oven  wood." 

"Woodcock,  you  don't  know  much  about  me,  or  you 

*»Copied  from  the  Record  of  the  original  Document 


138  THE     BAY     PATH. 

know  I  shan't  cross  the  river  without  you  as  my  pri 
soner." 

"  Well,  you  don't  know  much  about  me  or  you'd  know 
there  wasn't  boats  enough  on  this  side  to  take  ine  over  agin 
my  will,  'cept  in  small  slices." 

The  constable  was  puzzled.  He  had  calculated  upon 
intimidating  Woodcock,  but  he  saw  at  once  that  the  man 
was  determined,  and  that  he  would  never  submit  until  com 
pelled  by  brute  force. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  over  t'other  side," 
inquired  Woodcock,  "and  stand  on  your  head  and  read 
that  thing  back'ards  ?" 

Searles  made  him  no  reply,  and  shouldering  his  gun 
walked  off  towards  a  group  of  planters  on  a  neighboring 
field.  He  found  there  Henry  Smith,  Jehu  Burr,  John 
Cabel,  and  several  others,  to  whom  he  explained  his  errand, 
and  upon  whom  he  called  for  assistance. 

It  may  be  readily  guessed  that  he  did  not  call  in  vain. 
All  dropped  their  implements,  and  taking  their  guns, 
accompanied  the  constable  to  assist  him  in  making  the 
arrest.  Woodcock  saw  them  coming,  and  taking  his  gun, 
he  carefully  examined  the  priming,  rubbed  the  flint,  and, 
cocking  his  piece,  threw  his  hat  upon  the  ground  and 
assumed  the  defensive. 

"If  any  of  you  fellers  want  to  know  jest  how  a  sieve 
feels,"  said  Woodcock,  as  they  approached  him,  "you'd 
better  undertake  to  feel  of  me.  I'll  show  you  the  samp  you 
had  for  breakfast.  You  can't  scare  me.  You  darsn't  fire, 
any  wie  on  you." 

The  constable  and  his  force  huddled  together  for  a  con 
sultation,  but  had  hardly  closed  their  circle  when  Wood 
cock's  gun  was  discharged  into  the  air,imd  turning  sud 
denly,  they  saw  him  wheel  upon  his  foot  and  fall  at  his 
whole  length  upon  the  ground.  The  first  impression  was 
that  he  had  shot  himself,  but,  upon  seeing  Peter  Trimble 


THE     BAY     PATH.  139 

extricating  himself  from  his  feet,  the  constable  compre 
hended  the  whole  trick,  and  dropping  his  gun  he  leaped 
upon  Woodcock  before  he  could  rise,  and  by  having  imme 
diate  assistance  was  enabled  to  secure  his  capture.  Peter, 
who  imagined  he  saw  in  this  arrest  his  own  release,  had, 
while  Woodcock's  attention  was  entirely  engaged,  stepped 
slyly  behind  him,  and  reaching  around  pulled  the  trigger 
of  his  gun.  He  then  dropped  directly  upon  the  ground,  so 
that  when  Woodcock  impulsively  turned  to  strike  or  pur 
sue  him,  he  tumbled  over  him  instead. 

The  rage  and  mortification  of  the  poor  victim  of  circum 
stances  was  intense.  He  had  never  been  thus  humiliated 
before,  and  he  felt  that  death  would  have  been  far  better. 
As  he  lay  in  the  dust,  and  heard  the  sly  boasts  of  Peter, 
and  the  cough  of  John  Cabel,  and  the  coarse  jokes  of 
others  who  had  gathered  around,  he  raved  and  gnashed  his 
teeth,  in  his  torture. 

The  next  question  was  in  regard  to  taking  him  over  the 
river.  Woodcock  had  determined  within  himself  that  he 
woutd  never  be  taken  bound  to  the  village.  He  was  des 
perate,  and  cared  nothing  for  life ;  and  he  knew  that  the 
canoes  in  use  were  of  such  form  that  even  when  bound  he 
could  upset  one  of  them  with  perfect  ease.  His  hands  were 
tied  behind  him,  and  his  feet  were  allowed  only  play  suffi 
cient  for  a  limping  and  laborious  locomotion.  The  constable 
took  him  by  his  arms  and  assisted  him  to  rise.  He  looked 
at  no  one — spoke  to  no  one — and  made  no  reply  to  petty 
insults,  but  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to  a  canoe. 

The  constable  was  no  coward,  and  though  he  had*but 
little  confidence  in  Woodcock's  silence  and  apparent  sub 
mission,  he  determined  to  undertake  the  task  of  rowing  him 
over  the  river  alone.  The  prisoner  took  his  seat  in  the  boat 
with  considerable  difficulty,  and  while  Searles  assumed  the 
oar,  a  friend  pushed  the  frail  vessel  from  the  beach,  and 
with  a  single  sweep  of  the  oar  it  shot  into  the  stream. 


140  THE     BAY     PATH. 

The  transport  had  proceeded  but  a  third  of  the  way 
across,  when  Woodcock,  by  a  sudden  movement  of  his 
body,  turned  the  boat  upside  down,,  and  leaving  the  con 
stable  blowing  lustily,  and  holding  to  the  boat  that  perse 
vered  in  lying  bottom  upwards,  he  pushed  easily  off  upon 
his  back  and  floated  down  the  river  towards  the  Indian 
village. 

The  movement  was  observed  from  the  shore,  and  every 
man  dashed  into  his  canoe  and  struck  for  the  swimmer. 
The  chase  was  an  animated  one,  but  the  advantage  was 
altogether  with  the  pursuers,  and  their  object  Avas  speedily 
overtaken.  The  first  canoe  that  approached  was  waited 
for  by  Woodcock,  who  managed  to  give  it  a  kick  with 
both  feet  and  upset  it,  but  the  effort  came  near  to  drown 
ing  him,  as  it  sent  his  head  under  the  water  and  he  came 
up  half-strangled.  While  the  other  boats  were  taking  care 
of  those  who  had  thus  been  treated  to  a  bath,  Woodcock 
managed  to  get  under  headway  again,  but  he  was  at  last 
overhauled,  and,  notwithstanding  his  struggles,  a  rope  was 
passed  under  his  shoulders  and  secured  across  his  chest. 
They  were  then  in  the  middle  of  the  river  and  rapidly 
floating  downwards. 

As  they  were  consulting  upon  the  proper  method  to  be 
pursued,  a  canoe  pushed  rapidly  out  from  the  Eastern  shore, 
and  approached  them.  It  contained  a  solitary  Indian,  who 
swept  a  rapid  circuit  around  the  group  of  boats,  com 
prehended  at  a  glance  the  position  of  affairs,  and,  without 
uttering  a  word,  moved  as  quickly  back  to  the  point  from 
whence  he  had  issued,  and  disappeared  among  the  bushes 
upon  the  bank. 

"Well,"  said  John  Cabel,  pulling  up  after  Woodcock 
was  fairly  hooked,  and  graciously  assuming  a  share  in  the 
sport  when  it  had  been  safely  completed,  "  we  have  caught 
the  fish,  and  now  how  shall  we  cook  it  ?" 

"  That's  the  question,"  replied  the  constable. 


THE     BAT     PATH.  141 

"  That's  the  question,"  responded  Burr. 

"  Rather  a  serious  question,"  said  Henry  Smith,  gravely. 

"  I  know  what  I  should  do,"  said  Peter  Trimble,  squirt 
ing  a  mouthful  of  water  through  his  teeth  that  he  had  just 
taken  from  a  canteen. 

"  Out  with  it,  boy,"  said  the  constable. 

"  I  should  stick  this  canteen  under  his  neck,  and  tow  him 
ashore,"  answered  Peter. 

The  expedient  was  adopted  at  once.  The  canteen  was 
emptied  and  stopped,  and  by  its  own  strap  it  was  so  fastened 
to  the  captive's  neck  that  it  easily  kept  his  face  out  of  the 
watei*.  The  canoes  were  then  fastened  together,  and  each 
man  bent  to  his  oar.  The  tow  was  soon  under  full  headway 
up  the  stream,  and  a  rapid  passage  brought  the  fleet  to  the 
land. 

It  was  well  for  "Woodcock  that  he  had  escaped  thus 
easily,  for  he  had  become  very  much  chilled  in  the  water, 
and  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  was  dragged  up  on  the 
shore  almost  unconscious,  but  the  heated  sand  beneath,  and 
the  kind  sun"  above,  lent  him  their  warmth,  and  he  had  be 
come  so  far  restored  to  himself  as  to  feel  the  indignity  in 
flicted  upon  him  as  he  was  loaded  upon  a  rough  sled  or 
hurdle,  and  drawn  by  a  yoke  of  cattle  to  the  house  of  the 
constable. 

*•  Peter  Trimble,  who  had  done  more  than  any  other  one 
to  effect  the  arrest,  was  the  first  to  leap  on  shore  when  the 
canoes  landed,  and  half  a  dozen  steps  placed  him  beyond 
the  sight  of  his  companions.  Mounting  the  bank,  he  made 
directly  for  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon.  Mary  was  glad  to 
see  his  face,  for  she  had  heard  shouts  in  the  distance,  and 
did  not  doubt  that  Peter  knew  the  whole  story,  though  she 
was  not  prepared  for  so  terrific  a  "  row "  as  he  represented 
had  taken  place. 

Unfortunately  for  Peter's  reputation  as  a  liar,  the  inci 
dents  which  formed  the  basis  of  his  story  were  quite  equal 


142  THE     BAY     PATH. 

to  any  he  could  manufacture,  and  he  found  himself  in  a 
state  of  perfect  helplessness,  telling  a  correct  story.  She 
questioned  him  closely,  and  was  confirmed  in  her  appre 
hensions  of  the  correctness  of  his  narrative,  by  seeing  from 
her  window  the  poor  man  drawn  along  the  street,  amid  rude 
jests  and  swaggering  boasts,  like  a  slaughtered  bear. 

Mary  watched  the  rude  crowd  as  it  retired,  and  felt  more 
lonely  for  the  moment  than  ever,  but  her  resolution  was 
quickly  taken,  and,  throwing  a  handkerchief  upon  her  head, 
she  half  walked,  half  ran  to  Woodcock's  cabin,  and  found 
his  daughter  at  the  door,  hacking  a  stick  of  pine,  which  she 
was  endeavoring  to  reduce  to  kindling-wood. 

The  girl  dropped  her  axe,  and  looked  up  brightly  and 
affectionately  as  her  friend  approached.  Mary  Pynchon 
had  started  from  home  with  no  definite  intentions  in  regard 
to  her.  It  was  simply  an  impulse  to  a  good  deed  which  she 
had  neither  conceived  nor  planned,  so  that  when  she  came 
fairly  upon  the  child,  she  had  nothing  to  say,  and  could  only 
exclaim,  "  poor  child !"  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Is  he  dead?"  said  Mary  Woodcock,  with  a  strange 
suspicion  that  something  must  have  befallen  the  man  she 
had  recently  seen  so  frequently  with  her  benefactress,  and 
with  an  idea  that  nothing  less  than  that  should  so  distress 
her. 

"  No,  I  trust  not,"  replied  Mary,  recovering  herself,  and 
then  she  led  the  girl  into  the  cabin.  Peter  had  told  her  of 
the  nature  of  the  warrant  on  which  Woodcock  was  arrested, 
and  she  saw  that  some  one  would  be  obliged  to  assume  the 
charge  of  his  daughter ;  so,  sitting  down  in  the  cabin,  with 
the  girl  before  her,  she  told  her  very  plainly  of  her  father's 
situation.  The  child  did  not  weep — she  did  not  speak.  A 
strange  perception  of  propriety  deterred  her  from  the  ex 
pression  of  feelings  which  mingled  joy  and  grief  in  equal 
pi'oportions.  She  felt  that  to  be  near  Mary  Pynchon,  to 
live  in  the  light  of  her  smile,  to  feel  her  soft  hand  upon  her 


THE     BAY     PATH.  143 

face,  to  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments  as  they  brushed  past 
her,  to  listen  to  her  speech,  and  do  her  bidding,  was  the 
greatest  joy  earth  could  bestow;  and  poor  Woodcock 
would  have  felt  a  new  pang  could  he  have  seen  with  what 
willingness  and  alacrity  his  daughter  brought  out  her  clothes, 
tied  them  up,  and  fastened  the  cabin,  preparatory  to  a  re- 
moval  to  the  house  of  the  Pynchons. 

'>.  Woodcock,  still  bound,  was,  when  he  had  arrived  at  the 
house  of  the  constable,  thrown  upon  a  bed  of  loose  straw, 
in  the  shed,  and  left  alone.  He  had  no  more  a  tongue  for 
contempt  or  bravado.  He  had  been  beaten,  conquered, 
humiliated.  He  had  suffered  torture  the  most  terrible  he 
had  ever  known.  He  had  been  enraged  and  outraged,  and 
he  had  been  impotent  in  evasion  and  defence.  Exhausted 
in  body  by  his  long  submersion  in  the  river,  and  by  the 
excitement  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  half-stupefied 
and  crazed  by  the  harsh  reaction  of  his  mental  excitement, 
he  lay  all  day,  taking  no  food,  replying  to  no  question,  and 
apparently  conscious  of  no  one's  presence. 

A  river,  bright  in  the  sunlight,  was  rolling  through  his 
dreams,  and  phantom  boats  were  chasing  each  other  over 
its  surface.  For  long,  long  hours,  he  lay  upon  the  air  above 
them,  floating  on  the  wings  of  his  own  will,  listening  to  the 
clatter  of  their  oars,  and  the  confused  shouts  of  those  who 
swung  them,  and  looking  far  up  into  the  sky,  and  seeing 
the  clouds  as  they  changed  into  cornfields,  and  the  corn 
fields  as  they  changed  back  to  clouds,  and  catching  glimpses 
of  huge  wheels  that  rolled  singly  and  noiselessly  across  the 
heavens,  and  hid  their  glitter  in  a  cloud  with  a  faint  crash, 
like  that  which  splashes  the  ears  in  a  nightmare. 

And  then  a  whirlwind  caught  him.  in  its  folds,  and  rolled 
him  furiously  in  black  darkness,  until  strange  lights  flashed 
upon  him,  and  fiery  faces  met  his  eyes  at  every  turn.  Then 
the  whirlwind  lifted  him  swiftly  up,  up  far  above  the  clouds, 
and  held  him  there,  as  if  in  a  grasp  of  iron,  through  a  long 


144  THE     BAY     PATH. 

hour  of  unrelieved  breathlessness,  until,  in  an  instant,  the 
grasp  was  relaxed,  and  he  fell  with  terrific  rapidity  through 
the  air,  every  nerve  in  his  body  becoming  chai-ged  with  an 
awful  sense  of  imminent  violence,  only  half  relieved,  at  last, 
by  coming  softly  down,  and,  on  a  breathless  curve,  floating 
far  off,  and  striking  noiselessly  upon  the  bosom  of  the  river. 
There  upon  the  river  he  lay,  borne  by  the  current  through 
the  remainder  of  the  day  and  into  the  night. 

Sometimes  the  waves  leaped  up,  as  if  to  cover  his  face,  and 
then  parted  and  retired  with  hollow  laughter.  And  the  ripples 
came  up,  one  after  another,  and  whispered  and  snickered  in 
his  ears,  and  red-eyed  fishes  nibbled  at  his  feet,  but  he  had  no 
power  to  move — and  could  only  lie  pulseless,  breathless,  and 
passive,  on  the  strange  cold  water,  floating  somewhither, 
anywhither,  like  a  forsaken  hulk  on  a  wide  unknown  sea. 

At  times,  he  almost  extricated  himself  from  this  dream, 
and  thought  he  saw  standing  above  him  a  huge  form  like 
that  of  the  minister,  and  heard  the  words,  "  the  way  of 
transgressors  is  hard."  Then  -he-  subsided  again  to  the 
river,  and  the  waves  grew  brighter,  and  fair  trees  waved 
their  arms  from  the  banks,  and  a  sweet  warmth  spread 
through  his  limbs.  A  soft  hand  touched  his  temples  and 
grasped  his  wrist,  and  the  fancy  that  Mary  Pynchon  was 
over  him  was  so  precious  as  to  half  waken  him  with  a  sus 
picion  that  it  was  an  illusion.  But  he  would  not  open  his 
eyes  and  dissipate  it. 

The  day  wore  away  thus,  and  the  night  came  on.  For  a 
long  time  confused  voices  mingled  with  his  dream,  and  they 
at  last  died  away.  When  all  was  silent,  he  began  for  the 
first  time  to  come  fairly  into  the  possession  of  consciousness, 
and  became  immediately  aware  that  he  was  not  alone.  He 
felt  some  one  at  work  upon  his  hands,  and  they  were  then 
pulled  out  from  under  his  back,  so  stiff  and  helpless  that  he 
could  not  move  them.  His  legs  were  then  loosed  from 
their  fastenings,  and  a  pair  of  strong  arms  lifted  him  to  his 


THE     BAT     PATH.  145 

feet.     He  )nly  knew  it  was  a  friend,  and  leaning  upon  his 
shoulder  hobbled  off  with   him   through  the   street,    and 
•beyond  the  limits  )f  the  village. 

'"Early  upon  the  following  morning  the  constable  sought 
for  his  prisoner  where  he  had  left  him  the  night  previous. 
He  was  gone.  The  news  of  his  disappearance  flew  rapidly 
over  the  village,  and  while  some  were  disappointed  at  his 
escape,  others,  and  among  them  the  Pynchons,  experienced 
only  joy.  Mary  had  been  shocked  at  the  brutal  manner  in 
which  he  had  been  treated,  and  was  thankful  for  his 
release. 

"""Many  were  the  speculations  indulged  in,  in  regard  to  his 
disappearance.  He  was  not  known  to  have  a  friend  in  the 
plantation,  and  yet  the  constable  declared  it  impossible  for 
him  to  have  been  released  without  assistance.  The  minister 
had  his  own  opinions  upon  the  subject,  which  he  kept  to 
himself.  He  had  heard  at  midnight  a  scream  from  the 
bed  where  his  children  lay,  and  had  hurriedly  risen  only  to 
find  them  both  sleeping  quietly  in  each  other's  arms. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"WOODCOCK'S  disappearance  was  a  nine  days'  wonder  among 
the  settlers  of  Agawam.  The  first  impression  was  that 
he  had  fled  to  Hartford,  or,  perhaps,  to  either  Wethers- 
field  or  Windsor,  the  other  southern  settlements;  but  a 
traveller  who  arrived  at  the  plantation  from  Wethersfield 
reported  that  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  him. 

A  fortnight  passed  away,  and  at  its  close  a  portion  of  the 
members  of  the  expedition  to  the  Bay  came  wearily  in,  their 
beasts  laden  with  merchandise,  and  their  heads  and  hearts 
full  of  news,  but  they  brought  no  news  of  Woodcock. 
There  was  no  little  complaint,  now  that  Woodcock  had 
really  disappeared,  concerning  the  rigorous  manner  in 
which  he  had  been  treated.  Some  even  went  so  far  as  to 
intimate  that  he  had  met  with  foul  play,  and  privately  ex 
changed  the  suspicion  that  he  would  turn  up  some  day  very 
much  blackened  and  swollen  on  the  river's  bank. 

The  visits  of  Commuk  to  the  house  of  the  Pynchons  dur 
ing  the  absence  of  the  expedition  were  much  more  frequent 
than  usual,  and  as  he  left  quantities  of  game  for  which  he 
would  receive  no  payment,  his  actions  were  remarked  upon 
by  the  members  of  the  family.  He  looked  always  for  Mary 
Woodcock,  and  always  asked  her,  in  a  manner  which  she  had 
learned  to  understand,  whether  she  had  heard  from  her  father. 
Her  reply  in  the  negative  was  received  with  a  grunt  and  a 
shake  of  the  head,  and  his  singular  interest  in  the  child  was 
set  down  to  the  credit  of  his  well  known  good-nature. 

Mary  Woodcock's  life  had  begun  anew.  She  never  tired 
of  watching  her  benefactress,  and  when  near  her  became 


THE     BAY     PATH.  147 

inconveniently  forgetful  of  her  duties,  for  a  woman  was  to 
her  a  new  revelation.  If  Mary  Pynchon  were  dressing  her 
hair,  the  child  would  be  obliged  to  stop  and  wonder  at  its 
glossy  length,  and  watch  the  progress  of  the  miracle  by 
which  it  was  at  last  separated,  and  disposed  in  puffs  and 
plaits  upon  her  head.  It  was  a  wonder  with  her  for  many 
hours  how  the  lady  came  to  have  little  holes  in  her  ears,  so 
as  to  receive  and  hold  the  modest  rings  that  hung  there. 
She  could  find  no  such  holes  in  her  own,  having  felt  for  them 
often,  and  evermore  with  disappointment.  x 

Then  she  wondered  whether  the  holes  would  come  there 
of  themselves  when  she  had  grown  up  to  be  a  woman,  or 
whether  real  ladies  were  born  with  them,  while  poor  girls 
were  denied  such  a  distinction.  To  see  her  new  mistress 
eat  was  a  great  privilege,  and  the  source  of  long  rivulets  of 
thought.  She  measured  the  dimensions  of  every  mouthful 
as  it  disappeared,  marked  the  peculiar  turn  which  the  lady 
gave  to  her  knife  (for  forks  were  not),  and  thought  she  dis 
covered  two  modes  of  swallowing — one  upwards  and  the 
other  downwards.  This  was  the  theme  of  infinite  specu 
lation,  and  the  basis  of  patient  and  varied  experiment. 
Perhaps,  thought  the  little  girl,  she  swall-.vws  some  of  her 
food  into  her  head,  and  that  is  what  makes  her  hair  grow 
so  long,  and  opens  the  holes  in  her  ears.  And  then,  prac 
tising  on  the  suggestion,  she  swallowed  all  the  food  given 
her  with  a  pressure  upwards  that,  so  far  as  the  illusion  Mras 
concerned,  displaced  a  skull  full  of  brains  with  bread  and 
milk  every  day. 

Then  she  noticed  that  Mary  Pynchon  turned  out  her  toes 
and  moved  her  feet  with  a  peculiar  grace,  and  in  her  almost 
unconscious  efforts  at  imitation,  behaved  so  unaccountably  as 
to  puzzle  that  lady  very  mu&h.  But  there  was  one  exercise 
that  had  a  greater  effect  upon  her  mind  than  any  other. 
It  became  Mary  Pynchon's  custom  to  take  the  little 
girl  to  the  most  secret  part  of  the  house,  and  pray  with 


148  THE     BAY     PATH. 

her  daily,  holding  her  by  the  hand  meanwhile.  At 
these  times,  and  after  them  each  day,  the  child's  mind 
was  occupied  with  the  strangest  fancies.  The  lady  spoke 
so  sweetly,  and  asked  God  for  everything  that  she  wanted 
for  herself  or  her  protege  in  such  a  tone  of  love  and  confi 
dence,  that  the  child  did  not  doubt  that  she  saw  God  all  the 
time. 

And  then  she  wondered  whether,  when  her  own  hair 
should  grow  long  and  glossy,  and  the  little  holes  come  in 
her  ears,  she  should  also  obtain  a  vision  of  God's  face,  and  be 
able  to  talk  to  him  so  pleasantly.  She  even  went  so  far 
as  to  try  the  experiment  with  her  arm  around  a  little  girl, 
composed  of  an  ingeniously  folded  blanket,  whose  mouth 
commenced  at  the  forehead  and  divided  the  face  down 
wards. 

The  returning  fur-carriers  brought  to  Mary  Pynchon 
much  to  interest  her.  First  and  foremost  was  a  letter  from 
Holyoke,  whose  spirit  and  vivacity  had  returned,  and  whose 
language  had  become  restored  to  its  old  hearty  and  health 
ful  tone.  This  was  a  very  precious  missive,  enjoyed  much 
in  out-of-the-way  places — an  ever-abounding  spring  of  ten 
der  suggestions  and  dear  associations.  It  came  as  the  spice 
of  a  huge  dish  of  duties,  and  the  sweetener  of  an  over 
flowing  cup  of  labors.  A  large  number  of  plump  packages 
were  consigned  to  her  on  the  arrival  of  the  carriers — linens 
whose  destiny  lay  in  long  lines  of  sheets  and  pillow-biers ; 
shining  specimens  of  latten  and  pewter  ware,  for  the  adorn 
ment  of  a  hypothetical  dresser,  and  the  service  of  a  table 
that  lived  only  in  an  order ;  a  string  of  gold  beads  for  the 
neck  of  a  bride  unwed,  and  stufis  for  drapery  which  in  the 
age  of  honest  manufacture  and  economical  use  might  in 
close  the  form  of  the  virgin,  the  wife,  and  the  mother,  and 
perhaps  even  enter  the  grave  with  her,  or,  living  still,  be 
shown  to  little  girls  by  brisk  young  matrons,  with  the 
words,  "  these  were  your  grandmother's."  All  these  had 


THE     BAY     PATH.  149 

to  be  remarked  upon,  and  overhauled  and  shown  to  neigh 
bors,  who  knew  of  the  arrival  of  the  goods  before  they  were 
fairly  unloaded. 

Mary  answered  all  questions  patiently,  exhibited  her 
treasures  freely,  and,  when  the  task  was  finished,  sat  down 
with  her  mother  and  her  sister  Ann,  and  had  one  of  those 
long,  discursive,  and  unsatisfactory  talks  that  invariably 
precede  the  laying  out  of  that  great  work  described  in  the 
words  "getting  ready  to  be  married."  And  when  the 
work  was  laid  out,  she,  of  course,  did  not  know  where  to 
begin,  and  so  began,  as  all  with  similar  purposes,  plans,  and 
prospects  invariably  do,  to  grow  thin,  a  process  which  she 
persistently  continued  throughout  the  summer. 

During  Mr.  Pynchon's  absence  from  home,  Mr.  Moxon 
was  in  the  habit  of  calling  at  the  house  almost  daily,  to 
inquire  for  the  health  of  the  family,  and  to  pass  a  few 
minutes  in  chat  with  Mrs.  Pynchon  and  Mary. 

On  these  occasions  Mary  Woodcock  was  nearly  always 
present,  or  came  in  to  ask  some  question,  or  was  within 
hearing  near  the  window,  and  (whether  from  this  cause,  or 
some  other  less  apparent)  several  interviews  had  been 
passed  without  the  name  of  Woodcock  being  mentioned. 
On  one  occasion,  the  little  girl  was  absent,  when  the  mi 
nister  addressed  Mrs.  Pynchon  with,  "  I  see  you  have 
Woodcock's  unfortunate  little  daughter  with  you."  This 
was  uttered  with  a  kind  of  interrogative  inflection  which 
was  equivalent  to  asking  how  it  came  about. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pynchon,  replying  to  his  words,  and 
looking  at  Mary  anxiously  for  a  reply  to  his  wishes. 

"  The  sense  of  duty  must  have  been  very  strong  to  in 
duce  you  to  add  another  member  to  your  family,"  pursued 
the  minister. 

"Very  strong,"  echoed  Mrs.  Pynchon,  again  looking  at 
Mary,  whose  eyes  were  still  on  her  work. 

''-I  suppose,"  continued  the  minister,  "that  you  had  no 


150  THE     BAY     PATH. 

idea  when  you  brought  her  here  that  her  father  would  leave 
the  plantation." 

Mrs.  Pynchon  knew  that  it  was  Mary's  business  to  answer 
these  questions,  if  it  was  anybody's,  so  this  time  she  looked 
at  Mary  and  said  nothing.  Mary,  who  knew  that  it  was 
none  of  Mr.  Moxon's  business  what  was  done  in  the  family, 
had  not  said  anything,  hoping  that  the  embarrassment  of  her 
mother  and  her  own  silence  would  show  that  any  conversa 
tion  on  the  subject  would  be  unpleasant.  But  she  would 
not  be  rude,  and  so  replied,  "  I  did  not  stop  to  ask  whether 
he  was  to  be  absent  from  his  cabin  a  longer  or  a  shorter 
time.  I  knew  the  child  was  unprovided  for,  and  so  took 
care  of  her." 

"  As  I  remarked,"  persisted  the  minister,  "  the  sense  of 
duty  must  have  been  very  strong." 

"  I  cannot  take  the  credit  of  acting  under  even  the  slight 
est  sense  of  duty,"  replied  Mary. 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  the  minister. 

"  By  not  being  as  good  as  you  supposed  I  was  ?"  inquired 
Mary,  the  old  kind  smile  lighting  up  her  face,  despite  her 
vexation. 

"  No,  but  really,  what  else  could  have  induced  you  to 
undertake  such  a  charge  ?" 

"  Self-gratification,  if  you  please,  or  impulse,  or  sympathy, 
or  all  together,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Those,"  and  the  minister  assumed  a  bland  tone,  "  those 
may  be  the  highest  motives  of  a  carnal  heart,  and  doubtless 
are,  but  Christ's  disciples  should  have  a  higher  one." 

It  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise  that  Mary  wondered  what 
his  motives  were  in  pursuing  Woodcock  with  such  rigor, 
but  her  reflections  upon  this  point  could,  of  course,  have  no 
expression,  so  she  simply  replied  that  she  regarded  a  sense 
of  duty  as  being  quite  as  far  removed  from  being  the  high 
est  Christian  motive  as  those  which  she  had  assumed  as  the 
basis  of  her  action  in  regard  to  Mary  Woodcock. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  151 

"  What  can  be  higher  as  a  motive  of  action  than  a  sense 
of  duty  to  God  ?"  inquired  the  minister,  with  a  kind  of  dog 
matic  earnestness. 

"  Love  to  God,  and  love  to  man,"  replied  Mary,  quietly. 

"  Our  sense  of  duty,  you  will  remember,  grows  out  of 
this  love,"  said  Mr.  Moxon. 

"To  make  a  practical  matter  of  it,"  said  Mary,  "my1 
sense  of  duty  does  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  grow  out  of  my 
love,  at  all." 

"  What  do  you  understand  by  the  word  duty  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Moxon,  with  an  apprehension  that  she  might  differ  with 
him  upon  Its  definition. 

"  Duty  involves  obligation — indebtedness.  What  I 
understand  by  a  sense  of  duty  is  a  sense  of  indebtedness  or 
obligation.  What  I  do  from  a  sense  of  duty  is  done  in  dis 
charge  of  an  obligation  or  a  debt ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
when  a  kind  act  is  performed  only  from  a  sense  of  duty,  it 
may  be — I  will  not  say  must  be — essentially  a  mean  act. 
Further  than  this,  I  believe  that  many  acts  are  done  from  a 
sense  of  duty  which  a  pure  love  to  God  and  man  forbids." 

"  These  are  new  notions,  Mary,"  said  the  minister,  shak 
ing  his  head  sternly. 

"  None  the  worse  for  that,  if  they  are  true,  I  suppose  ?" 
said  Mary,  and  then  added,  "  but  perhaps  I  am  not  under 
stood.  I  regard  duty,  and  a  sense  of  duty,  as  entirely  dif 
ferent  things.  I  believe  that  all  good  and  just  and  praise 
worthy  deeds  are  performed  in  the  realm,  and  under  the 
sanctions,  though  not  necessarily  by  the  commands  of  duty. 
Thus,  I  may,  from  my  love  to  God  and  love  to  man,  do  a 
good  deed  which  I  perfectly  understand  to  be  in  the  line  of 
duty,  without  being  moved  to  that  act  in  the  slightest 
measure  by  a  sense  of  duty.  My  motive  is  a  higher  and 
better  one." 

No  sooner  had  Mary  concluded  her  explanation  than  sho 
perceived  that  she  had  produced  a  marked  effect  upon  the 


152  THE     15  A  Y      PATH. 

minister,  and  recognised  on  his  face  a  look  of  mingled 
anxiety  and  distress,  like  that  which  she  had  produced  on 
the  occasion  which  introduced  him  to  the  reader.  He  sat 
in  entire  silence,  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  until  the  silence 
became  painful  to  both  his  companions.  Mary  did  not  dare 
to  add  more,  for  fear  of  further  embai'rassing  him,  and  Mrs. 
Pynchon,  who  was  afraid  Mary  had  been  too  bold,  prepared 
herself  for  a  speech  of  reconciliation. 

"  Of  course,"  remarked  the  old  lady,  "  Mary  does  not 
mean  to  say  that  she  is  right,  and  you  are  wrong,  Mr. 
Moxon ;  I  presume  she  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as 
that.  She  only  says  what  she  thinks ;  it's  you  who  ought 
to  know." 

"  It  never  occurs  to  me  to  say  more  or  less  than  what  I 
believe,"  said  Mary,  "  though  it  is  always  with  diffidence 
that  I  differ  with  my  superiors,  and  always,  I  trust,  with 
becoming  deference  to  their  opinions." 

Now,  during  all  this  discussion,  there  had  been  a  prac 
tical  question  that  stood  like  a  standard  in  the  heart  of  every 
individual  of  the  group,  and  around  this  every  argument, 
suggestion,  and  word  rallied  as  naturally  as  if  it  had  no 
meaning  or  power  detached  from  it. 

The  relations  between  Mr.  Moxon  and  Woodcock  were 
somehow  intermingled  with  the  thoughts  of  all,  and  Mrs. 
Pynchon  had  become  so  painfully  self-conscious  as  not  to 
have  the  slightest  doubt  that  her  minister  could  see  the 
burden  of  her  mind  with  as  much  distinctness  as  he  could 
her  eyes. 

Thus  it  happened  that  'the  only  method  of  extrication 
from  the  embarrassment  of  the  moment  which  presented 
itself  to  her  was  connected  with  this  affair,  and  so,  to  set 
the  minister  on  his  feet,  in  esteem,  as  well  as  argument,  she 
undertook  to  lift  him  out,  and  said,  "  Now,  for  instance, 
Mary, — you  don't  suppose  that  anything  in  the  world  but  a 
sense  of  duty  would  have  made  Mr.  Moxon  deal  as  he  has 


THE     BAY     PATH.  153 

with  Goodman  Woodcock,  do  you  ?    Don't  you  see  that, 
when  you  come  to  apply  it,  it's  a  very  different  thing." 

Mary  said  nothing,  but  her  face  became  flushed  and  hot. 
Mr.  Moxon  rose  hurriedly,  walked  to  the  door,  and  had 
nearly  reached  the  street,  when  he  turned,  came  back, 
and  bade  the  ladies  a  good  morning,  after  which,  alter 
nately  looking  up  and  down,  he  moved  homewards.  Up  to 
this  moment,  he  had  not  suffered  himself  to  have  a  doubt 
in  regard  to  his  course  with  Woodcock.  Mary  Pynchon's 
words  had  led  him  to  ask  himself  the  question  whether  love 
to  God  and  love  to  man,  considered  as  the  basis  of  action, 
would  have  resulted  in  the  same  treatment  of  Woodcock 
that  had  flowed  from  his  notions  of  duty.  His  uncertainty 
upon  this  point,  and  his  uncertainty  in  regard  to  the  fate  of 
Woodcock,  fairly  unsettled  him,  and  a  wish^that  he  had 
been  more  lenient  towards  his  victim  dawned  upon  his 
mind,  rose  there,  and  burned  like  a  star. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

IT  was  not  till  among  the  last  days  of  June  that  Mr. 
Pynchon  returned  from  the  Bay.  The  more  important 
news  had  already  reached  him,  in  letters  which  he  had 
received  by  occasional  travellers,  from  Mr.  Moxon  and 
Mary. 

He  was  entirely  informed  of  the  events  that  had  occurred 
in  connexion  with  the  capture  and  disappearance  of  Wood 
cock,  and  despite  that  individual's  contempt  of  his  authority, 
regretted  the  whole  affair  very  thoroughly.  He  had  arrived 
somewhat  late  in  the  evening,  and,  after  sending  out  the 
letters  he  had  brought  from  the  Bay  to  different  indivi 
duals  in  the  plantation,  and  distributing  trifling  purchases 
among  the  members  of  his  family,  he  partook  of  a  hasty 
supper,  and  prepared  to  retire.  At  this  moment,  he  heard 
a  light  rap  upon  the  window-pane,  which  was  repeated  upon 
his  turning  his  eyes  in  that  direction. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  Well,  'tain't  a  saint,  but  it's  nobody  'at'll  damage  you 
any,"  replied  the  unmistakable  voice  of  Woodcock. 

"  Woodcock,  is  that  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  it's  me,  Square,  and,  if  you're  not  too  tired,  I  sh'd 
like  about  five  minutes'  parley  with  you,  out  here  on  the 
door-stone." 

Woodcock's  disappearance  had  been  a  cloud  upon  the 
magistrate,  overshadowing  the  joy  of  his  return,  and,  sin 
gular  as  it  may  seem,  the  rough  words  that  met  his  ear 
were  the  sweetest  music  he  had  heard  for  many  days.  He 
immediately  obeyed  the  summons,  and  shook  the  hand  of 


TUB     BAY     PATH.  155 

the  fugitive  from  justice  with  a  heartiness  entirely  unbe 
coming  a  magistrate. 

"  Well,  Square,"  exclaimed  "Woodcock,  standing  off,  and 
looking  at  him  through  the  dusky  twilight,  "I  shouldn't 
know  but  what  you  was  glad  to  see  me,  by  the  way  you 
take  on." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  you  are  safe  and  well, 
however  much  I  may  regret  your  conduct  and  its  results  to 
yourself." 

"  Well,  Square,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  What  I 
come  here  to-night  for  is  to  find  out  whether  there's  any 
thing  agin  my  coming  back  to  the  plantation,  and  bein' 
peaceable." 

"  I  know  of  no  way  by  which  you  can  escape  the  opera 
tion  of  the  law,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  and  yet  I  do  not 
know  how  Mr.  Moxon  might  feel.  I  can  see  him  and 
ascertain." 

"  There  was  a  time,  and  'twant  a  great  while  ago  nuther, 
when  I  .wouldn't  'a  took  a  favor  from  that  man ;  and  I 
wouldn't  now,  for  myself,  but  I  don't  want  that  gal  of  mine 
to  be  a  tax  on  anybody — leastways  on  you,  Square ;  and  if 
there's  any  way  for  me  to  'arn  her  living,  without  kickin' 
up  a  dust  in  the  plantation  and  being  a  pull-back  to  her,  I 
want  to  get  my  foot  into  it  and  foller  it." 
'  "  Suppose  there  is  no  way  ?" 

"  Then  you'll  never  see  me  agin.  I  ain't  comin'  back 
here  to  be  snaked  round  like  a  beef  critter." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  give  no  further  trouble,  provided 
the  past  is  forgiven  ?"  inquired  the  magistrate. 

"  No,  I  can't  promise  that,  'cause  I  don't  know  what  '11 
turn  up,  but  'twont  be  natur  for  me  to  be  jest  what  I  have 
been,  for  a  man  that's  been  in  the  mud  don't  get  clean  easy, 
and  I  can't  forget  that  my  back's  dirty." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  beyond  the  power  of  the  plan 
tation,  as  well  as  the  colony, — responsible  to  no  one." 


156  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"  Do  I  ?  Well,  it's  so,  Square,  and  it  always  '11  be  so.  If 
I  can't  have  the  right  kind  o'  dealin's  here,  I  sh'll  go  where 
I  can  get  'em." 

Mr.  Pynchon  was  silent  in  thought  for  several  minutes, 
and  then,  approaching  Woodcock,  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  said  with  much  feeling  and  vehemence — 
"  Woodcock,  what  is  there  to  hinder  your  being  one  of 
the  best,  happiest,  and  most  useful  men  in  this  settlement  ? 
You  have  strength  to  labor,  a  good  natural  disposition, 
and  power  to  win  a  good  name.  You  have  a  daughter 
to  live  for — one  who  will  make  you  happy  in  the  propor 
tion  that  you  make  her  respectable.  The  strongest  desire 
that  I  now  have  upon  my  mind  is  that  you  may  come 
back  here,  and  become  one  of  us,  peaceably  and  respect 
ably."  . 

"  Don't  make  a  chicken  of  me,"  said  Woodcock,  brush 
ing  his  nose,  "  for  it  gives  me  an  onhandy  bill  for  nothin', 
considerin'  there  couldn't  anybody  eat  me." 

"  Do  not  jest,  Woodcock,  but  tell  me  frankly  what  the 
trouble  is,"  earnestly  continued  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  There's  two  men  in  this  plantation,"  said  Woodcock, 
pulling  off  his  shoe,  and  shaking  out  a  pebble,  "  by  the 
name  of  Pynchon.  One  of 'em  is  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  t'other 
is  Square  Pynchon.  I  know  both  on  'em  middlin'  well, 
and  they  never'd  be  took  for  twins.  It's  Mr.  Pynchon 
that's  talkin'  with  me  now,  and  'twas  Square  Pynchon  who 
got  me  fined  for  tellin'  the  truth  about  the  minister,  and 
then,  'cause  I  wouldn't  stan'  it,  give  him  a  warrant  to 
keelhaul  me,  and  treat  me  like  a  beast.  The  Square  thinks 
it's  law,  and  the  minister  think's  it's  gospel,  but,  if  it  is, 
it's  shabby  law  and  worse  gospel ;  and  it's  a  thing  that'll 
come  round  byme-bye,  for  a  man  that  straightens  hoop? 
can't  work  ten  years  at  the  business  without  flippin'  his  own 
nose." 

"  You  have  certainly  been  very  frank,  Woodcock,"  re- 


THE     BAY     PATH.  157 

sponded  Mr.  Pynchon,  "but  you  have  made  your  usual 
mistake  of  attributing  all  your  troubles  to  the  circumstances 
under  which  you  live,  without  assuming  any  blame  yourself." 

"  I  never  shirked  anything  that  belonged  to  me  to  shoul 
der,"  said  Woodcock,  "  and  it  may  be  a  slim  thing  for  me 
to  say,  but  I've  got  a  notion  that  if  my  betters  had  been 
as  much  men  as  they  had  been  somethin'  smaller  and  less 
becomin',  they  never'd  had  any  trouble  with  me,  nor  I  with 
them.  Magistrates  forget  they're  men,  and  ministers  take 
a  consait  that  they're  angels,  and  so  they  think  it's  for  them 
to  boss  everything,  and  kick  round  the  rest  on  us.  I  don't 
want  to  be  hard  on  anybody,  Square,  but  if  the  woman  we 
read  about  that  was  catched  makin'  herself  shameful,  and 
was  told  by  the  Master  on  us  all  to  go  and  do  better,  had 
undertook  to  cut  up  here  in  Agawam,  you'd  'a  said  twenty 
lashes,  and  she'd  got  'em,  and  Mr.  Moxon  would  'a  said 
twenty  Amens  on  the  end  on  'em  for  a  snapper." 

Why  is  it  that  Mr.  Pynchon  does  not  venture  a  direct  re 
ply  to  this  ?  Does  dignity  or  self-respect  forbid  ?  Does 
he  feel  that  Woodcock  is  so  immeasurably  beneath  him  that 
it  is  a  matter  of  indiiference  whether  a  reply  be  made  or 
not  ?  There  he  stands,  face  to  face  with  a  criminal, — one 
upon  whom  he  had  endeavored  to  execute  the  sentence  of 
the  law.  Why  does  he  not  call  for  help,  and  re-arrest  the 
caitiff?  Why  does  he  take  Woodcock's  hand,  and  say,  "  I'm 
very  much  fatigued,  John,  take  care  of  yourself,  and  come 
again  to-morrow  night  ?"  The  answer  to  all  these  queries 
may  be  found  in  his  own  words,  as  he  closes  the  door  and 
enters  his  cabin :  "  The  man  is  right,  in  the  main — right  in 
the  main."  As  he  hangs  his  coat  upon  a  chair,  he  repeats 
the  words,  "  right  in  the  main  ;"  and  he  stops  while  wind 
ing  his  watch,  and  nods  very  firmly,  but  with  a  mere  jar 
of  the  muscles,  as  if  it  were  a  nod  of  the  soul  and  not  of  the 
head,  and  reiterates  "  right  in  the  main." 

Woodcock  left  the  house,  and  had  gone  but  a  short  dis- 


158  THEBAYPATH. 

tance  when  half-a-dozen  dark  forms  issued  from  the  cover 
of  a  tree,  and  joined  him,  as  he  took  his  way  southward 
out  of  the  village. 

On  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Moxon  was  the  first  to 
call  on  Mr.  Pynchon.  The  minister  looked  haggard  and 
worn,  as  if  he  had  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  and  appeared 
more  nervous  and  unsettled  than  ever  before. 

"  You  are  not  so  feeble  as  your  appearance  indicates,  I 
trust,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  grasping  his  hand  warmly. 

"  The  Lord  is  dealing  very  strangely  with  me,"  said  the 
minister.  "  Within  the  past  few  days,  thick  clouds  have 
been  upon  me.  I  only  pray  that  I  may  have  grace  sufficient 
for  all  my  trials,  and  that  in  His  own  good  time  God  will 
deliver  me  out  of  all  my  distresses." 

"  Have  you  any  new  tribulations  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pynchon. 
.  "  None  that  I  feel  at  liberty  to  reveal,"  replied  the  minis, 
ter,  "  but  I  beg  of  you,  my  Christian  father  and  brother, 
that  you  will  remember  me  in  your  prayers,  and  beseech 
God  that,  if  it  be  possible,  the  cup  may  pass  from  me." 

Mr.  Pynchon  was  seriously  pained  as  well  as  puzzled  by 
this  language,  and  particularly  by  the  deep  solemnity  with 
which  it  was  uttered.  Still  retaining  his  hold  of  the  minis 
ter's  hand,  he  said,  "  You  know,  Mr.  Moxon,  how  entirely 
you  have  my  sympathy,  and  how  gladly  I  would  do  anything 
in  my  power  to  relieve  you." 

The  minister  shook  his  head,  and,  releasing  his  hand, 
paced  up  and  down  the  room,  giving  utterance  to  deep 
sighs  that  lacked  none  of  the  wretchedness  even  if  wanting 
the  resonance  of  groans.  At  length,  pausing  before  Mr. 
Pynchon,  he  said,  "  The  time  may  come  when  the  load  will 
be  too  heavy  for  me  to  bear — when  my  poor  nature  will 
cry  out  in  its  pain,  and  then  I  shall  come  to  you  ;  but  pray 
for  me,  oh !  pray  !  pray !  that  I  may  be  delivered  from  the 
power  of  the  adversary,  and  that  the  divine  wrath  may  be 
stayed." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  159 

This  was  all  enigmatical  to  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  his  curiosity 
was  somewhat  aroused,  but  the  case  was  too  painful  to 
tamper  with,  and  so,  with  the  design  of  changing  the  sub 
ject,  he  spoke  of  Woodcock.  The  name  had  no  sooner 
been  pronounced,  than  Mr.  Moxon  paused,  looked  earnestly 
at  the  speaker,  and  waited  with  sharp  attention,  as  if  ready 
to  snap  at,  and  devour  eveiy  word. 

Mr.  Pynchon  saw  that  in  some  manner  the  subject  was  a 
key  to  the  minister's  secret,  and  kept  quietly  on.  He  allud 
ed  to  the  peculiar  temperament  of  the  man,  his  natural 
impatience  of  restraint,  his  strong  native  powers  of  mind 
and  good  qualities  of  heart,  and  the  possibility  that  he 
had  not  received  exactly  that  treatment  from  all  that  a 
thorough  Christian  charity  and  a  sound  policy  would  dic 
tate.  He  was  ready  to  assume  so  much  for  himself,  and 
doubted  not  that  others  would,  upon  reflection,  do  the  same. 
Furthermore,  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  if  Woodcock 
might  be  allowed  to  come  back,  and  to  go  unmolested 
about  his  business,  he  Avould  do  better,  and  eventually 
become  a  good  and  useful  citizen. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Moxon,  with 
an  eye  that  almost  burned  with  its  earnestness. 

"  No  !     But  I  think  I  know  where  he  will  be." 

"  Then  he's  alive  ?"  said  the  minister  interrogatively,  and 
added,  as  if  in  reply  to  his  own  question,  "  Oh  !  yes  !  he's 
alive  ;  I  knew  he  was  alive." 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  When  and  where  ?"  inquired  the  minister,  eagerly. 

"  Last  night,  and  here." 

"  Was  there  any  one  with  him  ?" 

"  No  one  that  I  saw." 

"  Did  you — that  is — do  you  remember  anything  peculiar 
— that  struck  you — was  there  anything  unusual  connected 
with  his  appearance  ?"  inquired  the  minister,  brokenly  and 
with  great  embarrassment. 


160  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon.  "  He  acted  entirely 
like  himself,  and  looked  like  himself.'^ 

"  Does  he  wish  to  return  to  the  plantation  ?"  inquired  the 
minister. 

"  I  think  he  would  do  so  at  once  provided  you  should  see 
fit  to  release  him  from  all  obligations  in  the  slander  case. 
He  appears  anxious  to  support  his  child,  and  he  confessed 
to  having  been  humbled  by  the  treatment  he  has  been  sub 
jected  to." 

"  I  will  release  him,"  said  the  minister,  "  on  these  condi 
tions  ;"  but  without  stating  the  conditions,  he  commenced 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room  again. 

"  On  what  conditions  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pynchon,  after 
watching  him  for  some  minutes. 

"  I — I  cannot  state  them,"  said  the  minister,  "  and  it  is 
not  necessary.  Tell  him  that  I  know  all,  and  that  he  can 
not  deceive  me.  Tell  him  that  I  forgive  everything,  if  he 
has  not  concluded  the  contract.  If  he  has  concluded  it, 
and  will  break  it,  he  may  always  count  on  me  as  a  friend. 
Tell  him  I  love  my  children  better  than  I  love  my  own  life, 
and  to  kill  me  rather  than — than — persevere  in  his  present 
course.  He'll  know  what  I  mean.  Tell  him  that  hell  is 
deep  and  eternity  long,  and  that  no  temporary  advantages 
can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the  soul.  Tell  him  that  the 
devil  was  a  liar  from  the  beginning,  and  that  brick  houses 
will  not  stand  in  the  day  of  judgment." 

"  I  beg  you  to  pause,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pynchon,  hur 
riedly  rising  from  his  chair.  "  You  are  surely  unwell,  Mr. 
Moxon.  You  have  overtasked  your  mind,  or  body,  or 
both,  and  cannot  be  aware  of  the  strangeness  of  your  lan 
guage.  Were  I  to  tell  "Woodcock  just  what  you  have 
directed  me  to  tell  him,  he  would  call  you  mad.  You  are 
certainly  very  unwell,  sir ;  I  beg  you  to  be  seated ;"  and 
Mr.  Pynchon  fairly  pressed  the  minister  into  the  seat  he 
had  vacated,  where  he  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  with 


THE     BAY     PATH.  161 

Lis  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  his  nerves  in  an  agitation  that 
was  half  hysterical. 

At  length,  without  uncovering  his  eyes,  he  exclaimed,  as 
if  deciding  a  question  he  had  been  revolving,  "  I  must  bear 
it  alone  for  the  present."  Then  rising,  he  said,  "  I  leave 
this  matter  with  you,  and  will  be  guided  by  your  judg 
ment.  If  you  think  it  best  for  Woodcock  to  return,  I  shall 
interpose  neither  obstacle  nor  objection."  Then,  seeing 
other  neighbors  approaching  the  house,  he  bade  the  magis 
trate  a  good  morning,  and  passed  homewards. 

On  the  following  evening,  Woodcock  appeared  at  the 
appointed  hour,  and  received  the  decision  that  had  been 
made  in  his  behalf.  He  listened  with  patience  and  respect 
fulness  to  Mr.  Pynchon's  counsel,  and  was  preparing  to 
depart,  the  interview  having  been  held,  as  on  the  previous 
evening,  outside  the  house,  when  the  slender  foi'm  of  his 
child,  in  her  white  night  dress,  leaped  from  an  adjoining 
window,  and  rushed  into  his  arms.  She  had  been  disturbed 
by  the  conversation,  and  the  voice  of  her  father  had  become 
so  real  in  her  dreams  as  to  awaken  her  to  the  reality  of  his 
presence ;  and  her  leap  from  the  window  was  the  offspring 
of  her  first  impulse. 

Woodcock  sat  down  upon  the  doorstep,  and  strained  the 
child  to  his  heart,  while  she  clung  to  his  neck  with  the 
nervous  vehemence  of  her  nature.  The  embrace  was  silent, 
but  full  of  love's  eloquence. 

"  Square,"  said  Woodcock,  at  last,  with  difficulty  break 
ing  the  spell,  "  why  can't  I  die  now  ?  I  never  shall  feel  so 
good  as  this  ag'in.  It  can't  be  brung  round  ag'in  any 
way." 

"  I  see  nothing  to  hinder  your  having  many  happy  days, 
if  you  are  well  disposed,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  I  hain't  any  faith,"  said  Woodcock,  shaking  his  head ; 
"  I  never  did  have  good  luck  long  't  a  time  nor  a  great 
while  in  a  place,  and  I  dou't  expect  to."  Then  turning  to 


162  THE     BAY      PATH. 

his  child  he  said,  in  a  mild,  kind  voice,  "  I'm  cornin'  back  to 
the  plantation  to-morrow,  gal." 

The  child  sprang  from  his  arms,  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Square?"  said  Woodcock,  whim 
pering  and  smiling  together,  at  the  sudden  fulfilment  of  his 
prophecy. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  the  cabin  to  live,"  said 
Mary. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  want  to  live  here,  and  be  a  little  beg 
gar,"  said  her  father. 

Here  Mr.  Pynchon  interposed,  and  told  him  of  Mary's 
singular  usefulness  in  the  house,  and  related  a  conversation 
lie  had  had  with  her  mistress  during  the  day,  in  which  the 
latter  interposed  the  most  decided  objections  against  part 
ing  with  the  child,  unless  Woodcock  should  insist  upon  it. 

"  And  I'll  come  down  and  fix  up  the  cabin  every  day," 
said  Mary,  eagerly,  taking  courage  from  having  an  advo 
cate  at  her  side. 

"  I  couldn't  'a  fixed  it  to  suit  myself  any  better,"  said 
Woodcock,  "but  I  didn't  want  to  be  beholden  ;  and  if  the 
gal  can  make  herself  of  any  account,  she's  better  off  with 
Mary  Pynchon  than  she  could  be  anywhere  else  in  the 
world." 

Thus  saying,  he  took  the  girl  in  his  arms,  walked  to  the 
window  from  which  she  had  leaped,  and,  with  a  whispered 
word  of  kindness,  lifted  her  in. 

Upon  the  following  morning,  the  people  of  the  plantation 
were  surprised  to  see  Woodcock  walk  forth  from  his  cabin, 
take  his  canoe,  and  go  quietly  to  work  upon  his  fields  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  without  attracting  the  notice  of 
the  magistrate,  or  meeting  with  any  objections  from  the 
minister  or  the  constable. 

Arriving  at  his  fields,  he  found  that  they  had  been  well 
taken  care  of,  through  the  faithfulness  of  the  constable, 
whose  gratitude  to  Peter  Trimble  had  not  hindered  him 


THE     BAT     PATH.  163 


from  tasking  that  individual  to  the  extent  of  his  strength, 
in  working  out  the  magistrate's  sentence.  An  explanation 
of  the  whole  matter  was  publicly  made  on  the  succeeding 
ure  day,  and  the  affair  blew  quietly  over. 


\ 


CHAPTER   XV. 

How  like  a  troubled,  feverish  dream  is  summer  to  the 
husbandman  !  How  early,  and  yellow,  and  hot,  comes  up 
the  brazen  sun  !  How  are  the  tunes  of  the  first  birds  and 
all  the  fresh  sounds  of  the  early  day  overpowered  by  the  jar 
and  bustle  of  toil !  How  the  days  fly  past ! — some  hot  and 
breathless,  some  bright  and  sparkling ;  some  full  of  rain, 
wind,  and  thunder ;  others  hemmed  about  on  the  western 
and  southern  horizon  with  bald-headed  clouds,  that  stand 
and  sleep  all  the  afternoon  in  the  sun  ;  some  so  clear  that 
they  mark  black  shadows  on  the  hill-sides,  by  trees  that  look 
so  clumpy  and  green,  so  thick,  dark,  and  downy,  that  one 
might  dream  of  jumping  from  a  cloud  into  them,  and  being 
softly  caught  in  their  cool  depths  ;  and  others  so  sultry  that 
the  robin  drags  her  wings  by  the  brook  side,  or  sucks  the 
lifeless  air  with  an  open  bill  and  a  spasmodic  inspiration ! 

To  those  who  have  passed  through  this  season,  exposed 
to  its  toils  and  debilitating  influences,  how  welcome  is  the 
first  cool  breath  o|"  Autumn !  How,  when  the  crickets  begin 
to  sing  through  the  drowsy  twilight,  and  the  dried  mullein 
holds  stiffly  up  its  tall  rack  of  seed-cups,  and  the  fresh  green 
silk  of  the  serried  corn  dries  and  darkens  into  matted  tufts 
of  brown,  and  the  foliage  of  the  forests  and  the  grasses  of 
the  pasture  show  that  the  freshness  of  their  life  has  departed, 
the  heart  becomes  calm  and  glad !  And  when  the  Frost 
King  descends  from  his  crystal  home  while  all  the  world  is 
sleeping,  and  breathes  upon  the  forests,  and  tramples  on  the 
flowers  that  they  may  not  be  contemptible  in  the  light  of 
his  radiant  miracles ;  when  the  maples  turn  to  gigantic 


THE     BAY     PATH.  165 

roses,  and  the  oaks  to  colossal  peonies,  when  the  meadow 
wears  a  gay  btmauet  upon  its  bosom,  and  the  river  runs  the 
gauntlet  of  an  army  clothed  in  crimson  and  purple,  and 
every  sight  and  sound  prophesies  of  relaxing  toil  and  speedy 
fruition,  how  tn^neart  grows  strong,  and  the  beauty  and 
majesty  of  Autumn,  and  its  golden  promises  and  great  ful 
filments,  touch  us  with  gladness  and  gratitude  ! 

And  when,  later,  the  leaves  drop,  one  by  one,  upon  the 
ground,  carpeting  the  solitudes  for  the  dances  of  the  fairies  ; 
and  the  nuts  open  their  brown  portals  to  the  curious  squirrel, 
and  great  congregations  of  crows  spend  whole  days  in 
meaningless  vociferations ;  when  the  flails  of  the  matched 
threshers  begin  to  thump  wearily  on  the  neighboring  barn 
floors,  and  the  wain  comes  creaking  home  with  its  freight 
of  corn ;  when  the  first  fires  begin  to  be  kindled  on  the 
social  hearth,  and  throw  their  dancing  light  over  happy  old 
age  in  its  easy  chair,  ruddy  maidenhood  in  its  life  and  levity, 
and  childhood  that  groans  in  the  bondage  of  coats  restored 
and  brogans  resumed,  how  the  heart  warms  to  the  touch  of 
some  of  the  sweetest  associations  of  life,  and  we  thank  God 
for  those  changes  which,  each  in  its  turn,  compensates  for 
all  the  severities  of  its  predecessor,  and  affords  a  balance  of 
characteristic  joy  for  which  it  may  be  loved,  and  by  which 
it  may  be  remembered  ! 

It  may  be  a  humiliating  fact  (and  that  is  doubtless  the 
reason  why  it  has  not  found  more  prominent  statement),  but 
it  is  none  the  less  an  established  one,  that  in  temperate  lati 
tudes,  the  stronger  passions  of  humanity  become  feeble,  and 
hardly  manifest  themselves  during  summer,  except  in  that 
spasmodic  manner  which  is  the  most  reliable  symptom  of 
debility.  Thus  ambition  seems  to  dissipate  in  perspiration, 
the  fires  of  anger  subside  under  copious  draughts  of  cold 
water,  and  love  itself  forgets  its  ardor  beneath  a  burning 
sun.  Even  the  most  devoted  attachments  seem  to  be  re 
laxed  by  the  season,  and  are  only  restored  to  their  original 


166  THE     BAT     PATH. 

tone  and  tension  by  the  return  of  the  mercury  to  medial  alti 
tudes  and  modest  figures. 

It  was  partly  owing  to  this  fact  that  the  love  which  Hoi- 
yoke  felt  for  Mary  Pynchon  was  in  a  measure  laid  aside  on 
his  arrival  at  the  Bay,  and  that  neither  of  the  lovers  found 
the  attachment  any  obstacle  in  the  pursuit  of  objects  of  im 
mediate  interest.  They  had  parted  with  mutual  faith,  and 
with  certain  objects  to  be  compassed  before  they  should 
meet  again — Holyoke  to  make  his  aifairs  ready  for  the  con 
templated  removal  to  Agawam,  and  Mary  to  prepare  for  the 
establishment  of  a  new  home,  and  the  assumption  of  new 
responsibilities. 

The  summer  passed  rapidly  away,  and  with  but  little  im 
patience  on  either  side ;  but  when  the  Autumn  began  to  creep 
on  and  the  crickets  began  to  sing,  and  the  mullein  stood 
patiently  drying  its  rack  of  seed-cups  in  the  sun,  and  the 
corn  silk  grew  brown,  and  the  frost  wrought  its  wonders, 
there  was  not  a  sight  but  brought  sweet  suggestions  to  the 
expectant  lovers,  or  a  sound  that  did  not  tell  them  of  a  great 
joy  towards  which  they  were  tending. 

In  the  plantation,  generally,  matters  had  gone  on  with  a 
remarkable  degree  of  quietness.  The  carpenter,  Jehu  Burr, 
with  such  help  as  he  could  occasionally  secure,  had  succeed 
ed  in  building  a  habitable  house  for  Holyoke,  to  be  in  readi 
ness  for  occupation  when  that  individual  should  arrive.  Its 
simple  furniture,  built  at  the  Bay,  came  by  water  carriage, 
and  was  arranged  by  Mary's  own  hands. 

The  feud  between  Mr.  Moxon  and  Woodcock  slept, 
although  no  cordiality  existed  between  them.  Many 
thought  that  a  great  change  had  occurred  in  the  latter, 
and  some,  in  genuine  friendliness,  endeavored  to  approach 
him  with  the  design  of  encouraging  any  good  resolutions 
that  he  might  be  entertaining,  but  their  advances  were 
coolly  met,  and  persistently  repulsed.  He  was  not  living 
~for  himself;  he  was  not  acting  himself.  He  was  engaged 


THE     BAY     PATH.  167 

in  providing  for  his  daughter,  and  carried  under  powerful 
restraint  as  independent  a  spirit  as  ever.  The  daughter 
still  lived  with  Mary  Pynchon,  and  week  by  week  and 
month  by  month  improved  in  her  demeanor,  until  fear 
began  to  be  felt  by  many  in  the  neighborhood  who  had 
young  daughters,  that  Mary  Pynchon  would  "  spoil  that 
child,  and  make  her  forget  who  she  was  and  where  she 
came  from" — baleful  influences  which  they  sought  benevo 
lently  to  correct  at  every  convenient  opportunity. 

Peter  Trimble  was  kept  out  of  mischief  by  hard  work- 
He  was  whipped  but  three  or  four  times  during  the  summer, 
for  such  offences  as  knocking  off  the  hats  of  other  boys  on 
the  way  home  from  meeting,  agreeing  to  give  boot  in  a 
jack-knife  trade,  and  making  the  payment  somewhat  too 
energetically  with  a  leather  article  of  that  name,  and  other 
playful  indiscretions  of  a  similar  character. 

Mr.  Moxon  preached  with  singular  earnestness,  and  de 
voted  himself  to  the  discharge  of  his  duties  with  an  assidu 
ity  which,  receiving  its  primary  impulse  in  unwonted  spirit 
ual  fears  and  fancies,  was  naturally  and  almost  Mpessarily 
convulsive  and  severe. 

The  approaching  marriage  of  Mary  Pynchon  was  the 
theme  of  much  gossip  in  the  plantation,  and  particularly  so 
as  no  one  out  of  the  family  knew  exactly  when  the  event 
was  to  take  place.  Among  the  first  days  of  November, 
however,  at  an  unusually  full  meeting  on  lecture  day,  the 
intentions  of  marriage  between  her  and  Holyoke  were  pub 
lished,  viva  voce,  in  accordance  with  the  colonial  law. 

Mary  was  present,  and  in  the  whisper  and  flutter  and 
stare  which  followed  the  announcement,  sat  in  indignant 
though  silent  rebellion,  against  what  she  regarded  as  a 
sacrilegious  notoriety,  as  disgusting  to  every  healthful  sen 
sibility  as  it  was  grateful  to  prurient  and  prying  curiosity. 

The  fourteen  days  of  "publishment"  at  last  expired. 
Holyoke  and  a  number  of  friends  from  the  Bay  arrived,  and 


168  THE     BAY     PATH. 

the  evening  was  appointed  for  the  performance  of  the  mar 
riage  ceremony.  Every  individual  upon  the  plantation  had 
been  invited  to  the  wedding — an  occasion  fraught  with 
more  of  pleasant  anticipation  than  any  in  the  experience  of 
the  settlement.  The  preparations  for  that  wedding — the 
furbishing  of  old  dresses,  the  polishing  of  rough  shoes,  the 
labor  night  and  day  to  finish  a  home-spun  garment — the 
contriving,  the  dreaming,  the  gossiping — the  impatience  for 
the  advent  of  the  looked-for  day,  and  the  flutter  of  delight 
as  it  dawned,  need  no  description. 

A  cool,  frosty  evening  among  the  closing  days  of  Novem 
ber,  produced  the  long  expected  hour.  The  stars  were 
shining  brightly,  and  the  fallen  leaves  were  lying  in  silent 
heaps  upon  the  ground,  as  the  neighborhood  began  to  col 
lect  at  the  hotise  of  the  magistrate.  The  candle-wood 
blazed  cheerfully  upon  the  hearth,  and  welcomed,  in  its 
own  way,  with  flashes  and  sputterings,  and  jets  of  smoke, 
and  dancing  out-gushings  of  flame,  each  guest  as  he  opened 
the  door.  There  were  long  quiet  whisperings,  and  half 
suppressfll jests,  and  criticisms  of  dress;  and  when,  at  last, 
all  had  collected,  expectation  began  to  verge  upon  impa 
tience;  and  every  opening  door  was  the  signal  for  a 
renewed  silence. 

There  was  one  man  present  who,  without  companionship, 
was  more  profoundly  exercised  by  his  emotions  than  any 
other.  This  man  was  John  Woodcock.  He  had  for  seve 
ral  days  been  meditating  a  step  which,  to  his  own  mind, 
was  charged  with  the  deepest  interest  and  greatest  import 
ance  ;  and  he  sat  revolving  it  while  those  around  him  gave 
themselves  up  to  levity  and  the  natural  excitements  of  the 
occasion.  He  sat  at  the  back  side  of  the  room,  and  as 
occasionally  his  daughter,  neatly  dressed,  entered  the  room 
on  some  errand  from  her  mistress,  his  eye  followed  her  in 
every  movement,  with  an  interest  as  apparent  to  those 
around  him,  as  it  was  ah1  absorbing  to  himself. 


THE     BAT     PATH.  169 

There  was  also  something  in  the  occasion  itself  that 
affected  him  deeply.  Unconsciously  he  had  become  a  wor 
shipper  of  Mary  Pynchon,  as  an  impersonation  of  feminine 
beauty,  grace,  and  goodness.  The  idea  of  loving  her  had 
never  entered  his  heart.  His  sentiment  was  one  which  left 
love,  with  its  earthly  attachments  and  associations,  its 
thoughts  of  equality  and  possession,  entirely  unconceived. 
He  would  have  spurned  all  imputation  of  passion  as  unworthy 
of  himself  and  her.  He  would  not — he  could  not — have 
profaned  her  presence  with  any  sentiment  less  selfish  than 
that  which  lies  at  the  basis  of  worship — a  reverent  admira 
tion  that  carried  with  it  an  entire  submission  of  will  and 
devotion  of  life. 

It  was  a  strange  heart — that  encased  in  those  rough  habi 
liments.  It  had  once  loved,  and  might  perhaps  have  loved 
again,  but  for  a  woman  who  had  inspired  him  with  a  sen 
timent  higher  than,  or  inconsistent  with  love.  He  would 
have  cursed  himself,  as  he  would  any  of  the  common  men 
around  him,  for  any  thought  of  love  towards  her,  and  yet 
she  had  wrought  so  powerfully  upon  his  mind,  that  all  other 
feminine  natures,  to  which  he  was  not  bound  by  a  natural 
tie,  became  insipid  and  valueless.  The  fact  that  he  could 
not  love  her  precluded  the  possibility  of  his  loving  any  one 
else.  Still,  unselfish  as  were  his  feelings  towards  the  friend 
of  his  child,  and  earnestly  as  he  wished  for  her  happiness, 
he  could  not  contemplate  her  marriage  with  Holyoke  with 
out  a  pang.  It  was  to  him  (for  what  reason  he  knew  not) 
the  dethronement  of  a  goddess — the  degeneration  to 
humanity  of  an  angel.  It  was  not  jealousy  that  moved  him ; 
it  was  no  ill  will  towards  Holyoke,  and  yet,  what  was  it  ? 

At  length,  during  a  deepening  hum  of  conversation,  the 
door  leading  from  the  adjoining  apartment  was  opened,  and 
the  participators  in  the  ceremony  made  their  appearance. 
First  came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon,  and  they  were  followed  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pynchon,  succeeded  by  Henry  Smith  and  his 

8 


170  THE     BAY     PATH. 

wife.  All  these  stood  until  Holyoke  appeared,  with  Mary 
leaning  upon  his  arm,  and  took  his  position,  before  them. 

Well  might  that  little  assembly  be  smitten  with  silence  by 
that  vision  of  noble  manhood  and  radiant  beauty — a  silence 
that  was  sweet  and  holy — a  silence  pervaded  with  all  pure 
and  happy  thoughts,  and  unsealing  the  fountains  of  uncon 
scious  tears.  The  stillness  was  interrupted  by  the  voice  of 
the  minister,  in  the  words,  "  Let  us  pray."  The  prayer 
uttered  was  one  of  genuine  feeling,  and  in  its  mention  of 
Mary  was  so  fervent  and  touching  that  even  Woodcock 
opened  his  heart  to  its  influences,  and  joined  in  the  aspiration. 

At  the  close  of  the  prayer,  the  marriage  ceremony  was 
performed  by  Mr.  Pynchon,  who,  as  the  only  magistrate 
present,  was  alone  empowered  to  officiate  upon  the  occasion. 
Parental  pride  and  tenderness  were  too  much  for  official 
dignity,  and  the  simple  words  were  said  in  a  broken  voice, 
and  with  manifest  emotion.  When  they  were  concluded, 
the  only  pejsons  who  went  forward  to  salute  the  bride  were 
Ann  Smith  and  her  father. 

Thei'e  seemed  to  be  a  strange  restraint  upon  the  assembly. 
Women  who  had  known  Mary  for  years  sat  silently  in  their 
places,  apparently  in  much  embarrassment.  Every  out-reach 
ing  of  friendly  sympathy  seemed  to  be  held  in  painful  check, 
and  every  one  appeared  afraid  of  doing  something  that 
somebody  would  deem  wrong.  The  spell  was  at  last  broken 
by  a  little  fellow  who,  unknown  to  his  parents,  had  brought 
a  present  to  the  bride.  He  left  his  seat,  and,  plunging  his 
hand  into  his  pocket,  pulled  and  tugged  at  its  contents  till, 
when  he  had  arrived  at  Mary's  side,  his  round  face  was  as 
red  as  a  beet.  The  lad  still  worked  manfully,  and  at  length 
conquered  an  intractable  bag  of  chestnuts,  which  he  drew 
forth,  and  presented  to  the  bride,  amidst  a  hearty  laugh 
commenced  by  Holyoke  and  joined  in  by  Mary,  who  seized 
and  kissed  the  little  boy  as  he  commenced  to  retreat,  with 
his  heart  full  of  indignation,  and  his  pocket  inverted. 


THJE     BAY     PATH.  171 

This  little  incident  broke  the  spell  so  far  as  the  children 
were  concerned,  and  they  pressed  forward  to  make  their  tri 
fling  gifts,  and  win  the  smile  and  kiss  which  they  coveted  as 
their  reward.  As  soon  as  the  children  had  paid  their 
respects  to  the  bride,  the  old  constraint  returned,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  held  the  company  in  its  painful  thrall. 

John  "Woodcock  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  Ris 
ing  from  his  seat,  and  making  his  way  out  of  the  crowd 
around  him,  he  crossed  the  room  to  where  his  daughter  was 
standing  absorbed  in,  and  half  bewildered  by  the  scene, 
and,  whispering  a  few  words  in  her  ear,  took  her  by  the 
hand,  and  led  her  before  the  married  pair.  Mary  extended 
her  hand  to  him  instantly  and  cordially,  and  exclaimed,  "I 
knew  that  you  would  come  to  me  and  congratulate  me." 

"That  wan't  my  arrant  any  way,"  said  Woodcock 
bluntly,  "  and  I  shouldn't  begin  with  you  if  it  was." 

"  Why,  John !  I  am  astonished !"  exclaimed  the  bride. 
"  I  thought  you  was  one  of  the  best  friends  I  had  in  the 
world." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  change  your  mind  till  you  hear  agin, 
but  the  fact  is,  when  two  fellers  swap  guns,  'taint  the  feller 
that  gets  the  poorest  gun  that  feels  proud,  or  stands  treat, 
or  gets  flattered  for  his  bargain." 

Holyoke  had  heard  much  of  Woodcock  and  his  quaint 
humors,  and,  extending  his  hand  to  him  good-naturedly, 
said,  "I  am  the  man  who  feels  proud,  and  am  all  ready  to 
be  flattered  for  my  bargain." 

"  When  a  basket's  full  of  corn,  shook  down,  what's  the 
use  of  pilin'  on  more  ?"  said  Woodcock. 

Holyoke  laughed  heartily  at  the  sally,  but  Mary,  inclined 
to  be  vexed,  said,  "  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  my  husband." 

"  I  never  told  anybody  I  didn't  like  him.  He  likes  you, 
and  you  like  him,  and  that's  two  things  that  ought  to  be  a 
recommend  to  him  anywhere.  It  would  'a  been  jest  the 
same  if  the  king  was  your  husband.  'Taint  in  my  line  to 


172  THE     BAT     PATH. 

say  flatterin'  things  to  anybody,  but  women  are  better'n 
men,  and  always  get  the  little  end  of  the  trade,  when  they 
get  married." 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  you  have  been  cheated  on 
general  principles,"  said  Holyoke  to  Mary,  in  a  merry  tone. 

But  Mary  was  somehow  affected  with  Woodcock's  seri 
ousness,  and,  with  no  reply  to  Holyoke,  beyond  a  smile,  she 
asked  Woodcock's  reasons  for  the  statement  he  had  made. 

"  I  didn't  come  up  here  to  talk  about  this,  and  p'raps  it 
aint  the  right  time  to  do  it,  but  there's  no  use  backin'  down 
when  you  begin.  I've  got  a  consait  that  men  and  women 
ain't  built  out  of  the  same  kind  of  timber.  Look  at  my 
hand — a  great  pile  o'  bones  covered  with  brown  luther, 
with  the  hair  on, — and  then  look  at  yourn.  White  oak 
aint  bass,  is  it  ?  Every  man's  hand  aint  so  black  as  mine, 
and  every  woman's  aint  so  white  as  yourn,  but  there's 
always  difference  enough  to  show,  and  there's  jest  as  much 
odds  in  their  doin's  and  dispositions  as  there  is  in  their 
hands.  I  know  what  women  be.  I've  wintered  and  sum 
mered  with  'em,  and,  take  'em  by  and  large,  they're  better'n 
men.  Now  and  then  a  feller  gets  hitched  to  a  hedgehog, 
but  most  of  'em  get  a  woman  that's  too  good  for  'em. 
They're  gentle  and  kind,  and  runnin'  over  with  good  feelin's, 
and  will  stick  to  a  feller  a  mighty  sight  longer'n  he'll  stick 
to  himself.  My  woman's  dead  and  gone,  but  if  there  wan't 
any  women  in  the  world,  and  I  owned  it,  I'd  sell  out  for 
three  shillin's,  and  throw  in  stars  enough  to  make  it  an 
object  for  somebody  to  take  it  off  my  hands." 

During  Woodcock's  delivery  of  this  little  speech,  several 
of  the  company  had  risen  from  their  seats,  and  pressing 
towards  the  central  group,  formed  a  circle  around  it,  so 
that  when  Ihe  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  so  charac 
teristic  of  himself,  there  was  a  general  laugh.  Woodcock 
looked  around  upon  the  company,  but  no  smile  came  upon 
his  features.  He  had  been  diverted  from  the  purpose  for 


THE     BAY     PATH.  173 

which  he  had  risen,  and  was  annoyed  by  the  intrusion  of  so 
many  heads  into  business  that  he  by  no  means  considered 
public. 

Looking  around  upon  the  expectant  group,  he  added, 
"  As  I  was  sayin',  they'll  stick  to  a  man  longer'n  he'll  stick 
to  himself,  but  they  ain't  apt  to  stick  where  they  ain't 
wanted,  and  are  first  rate  at  mindin'  their  own  business." 

This  direct  hit  was  understood,  and  while  a  few  turned 
and  went  smiling  to  their  seats,  all  fell  back  and  left  him  to 
himself  and  his  errand. 

"  Some  time  ago,"  resumed  Woodcock,  "  I  heerd  the 
little  ones  and  some  of  the  old  ones  tellin'  what  they  was 
goin'  to  give  Mary  Pynchon  when  she  got  man-ied ;  and  it 
set  me  to  thinkin'  what  I  could  give  her,  for  I  knew  if  any 
body  ought  to  give  her  anything,  it  was  me.  But  I  hadn't 
any  money,  and  I  couldn't  send  to  the  Bay  for  anything, 
and  I  shouldn't  'a  known  what  to  get  if  I  could.  I  might 
have  shot  a  buck,  but  I  couldn't  'a  brought  it  to  the  weddin', 
and  it  didn't  seem  exactly  ship-shape  to  give  her  anything 
she  could  eat  up  and  forget.  So  I  thought  I'd  give  her  a 
keepsake  my  wife  left  me  when  she  died.  It's  all  I've  got 
of  any  vally  to  me,  and  it's  somethin'  that'll  grow  better 
every  day  it  is  kep,  if  you'll  take  care  of  it.  I  don't  know 
what'll  'come  of  me,  and  I  want  to  leave  it  in  good  hands." 

The  bride  began  to  grow  curious,  and  despite  their  late 
repulse,  the  group  began  to  collect  again. 

"  It's  a  queer  thing  for  a  present,  perhaps  (and  Woodcock's 
lip  began  to  quiver  and  his  eye  to  moisten),  but  I  hope  it  '11 
do  you  some  sarvice.  'Taint  anything  't  you  can  wear  in 
your  hair,  or  throw  over  your  shoulders.  It's — it's — " 

"  It's  what  ?"  inquired  Mary,  with  an  encouraging  smile. 

Woodcock  took  hold  of  the  hand  of  his  child,  and  placing 
it  in  that  of  the  questioner,  burst  out  with,  "  God  knows 
that's  the  handle  to  it,"  and  retreated  to  the  window, 
where  he  spent  several  minutes  looking  out  into  the  night, 


174  THE     BAT     PATH. 

and  endeavorirg  to  repress  the  spasms  of  a  choking  throat. 
Neither  Mary  Holyoke  nor  her  husband  could  disguise 
their  emotions  as  they  saw  before  them  the  living  testimo 
nial  of  Woodcock's  gratitude  and  trust.  Mary  stooped  and 
kissed  the  gift-child,  who  clung  to  her  as  if,  contrary  to  her 
father's  statement,  she  was  an  article  of  wearing  apparel. 

The  interview  of  Woodcock  with  the  bride  had  been 
somewhat  extended,  and  during  its  continuance  an  observ 
ant  eye  would  have  seen  that  Mr.  Moxon  was  growing 
momently  more  nervous,  until  he  seemed  to  have  arrived 
at  absolute  distress.  The  moment  that  the  newly  married 
pair  were  disengaged,  he  advanced  to  them  with  his  wife, 
and,  complaining  of  indisposition,  expressed  his  regret  that 
he  should  be  obliged  to  retire,  and  bid  them  a  good  even 
ing.  Holyoke  was  very  emphatic  in  his  expressions  of 
sorrow  at  the  necessity  of  this  step  on  the  part  of  the 
minister,  but  Mary  was  simply  polite,  for  her  quick  heart 
had  divined  a  secret  connected  with  his  presence  which 
deeply  concerned  her  own  heart,  and  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  regret  his  withdrawal. 

The  company  all  rose  as  the  minister  retired,  and  not  one 
sat  down  as  the  door  was  closed.  In  an  incredibly  brief 
space  of  time  the  whole  appearance  of  the  assembly  was 
changed.  Silence  broke  into  confused  chattering,  and  the 
bride,  instead  of  standing  alone  in  awkward  embarrassment, 
was  surrounded  by  a  band  of  loving  hearts,  which  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  natural  impulses  and  emotions  of  the 
occasion.  But  a  few  minutes  had  passed  after  the  depar 
ture  of  the  minister  before  Mary's  hand  had  been  pressed 
by  every  guest — even  the  most  awkward  and  bashful  find 
ing  some  kind  word  for  utterance  to  an  ear  they  had  rarely 
if  ever  addressed. 

The  hum  of  unrestrained  conversation  was  at  length 
broken  in  upon  by  Mr.  Pynchon,  who  informed  the  com 
pany  that  the  newly  united  pair  were  to  be  installed  in  their 


THE     BAY     PATH.  175 

housekeeping  that  very  night,  and  that  they  would  be 
happy  to  be  accompanied  to  their  new  home  by  their 
friends.  Accordingly,  all  made  themselves  ready  for  the 
walk,  and  a  happier  party,  as  they  laughed  and  sang  along 
the  leaf-strewn  street,  never  found  themselves  together. 

Arriving  at  the  new  house,  they  found  it  lighted,  a  cheer 
ful  fire  blazing  upon  the  hearth,  and  a  bountiful  and  sub 
stantial  repast  in  waiting  upon  the  table,  to  which  full 
justice  was  immediately  done  by  strong  and  healthful 
appetites.  The  frolic  that  followed  among  the  younger 
members  of  the  company  received  no  check  from  the  older 
and  graver  portion,  and  when,  at  last,  the  hour  for  separa 
tion  arrived,  all  retired,  feeling  that  they  had  been  refreshed, 
refined,  and  made  better.  Mr.  Pynchon  was  the  last  who 
left  the  door,  and  closed  the  parting  scene  by  a  kiss,  as 
vigorous  as  it  was  rare,  and  a  special  injunction  to  "  see 
that  the  fire  was  raked  up  safe." 

To  one  who  has  drunk  deeply  of  life's  experience,  a  newly 
married  pair  is  always  an  object  of  strong  and  tender  inte 
rest.  Love  is  beautiful  in  itself.  Its  hearty  and  unques 
tioning  devotion,  its  perfect  trust,  and  its  soft  and  gentle 
sympathies,  are  very  beautiful ;  and  no  less  beautiful  are 
the  happy  souls  in  which  these  graces  of  the  passion  are 
realized.  But  the  interest  one  feels  in  those  commencing 
life  together,  in  marriage,  is  based  on  no  abstractions  like 
these.  It  has  its  birth  in  our  own  experience.  Childhood 
is  very  beautiful  in  itself,  but  we  love  it  mostly  because  of 
its  association  with  the  simple  years  of  happiness  that  form 
the  romance  of  our  own  past  life.  We  may  smile  at  the 
frivolous  pleasures  of  childhood,  and  despise  its  objects, 
and,  even  while  we  heave  a  sigh  in  view  of  the  deep  disap 
pointments  which  await  it,  in  the  great  discipline  of  life, 
drop  hot  tears  that  its  freshness  may  never  again  be  oxirs. 
Thus  it  is  with  love's  childhood,  and  all  its  associations. 
We  know  that  years  of  trial  and  patient  suffering  endured 


176  THE     BAY    PATH. 

in  companionship,  and  mutual  participation  in  such  imper 
fect  joys  as  the  world  affords,  will  produce  a  love  so  sweetly 
sympathetic,  so  perfect  and  profound,  that  the  bliss  of  the 
honeymoon  shall  mimic  it  only  as  a  shallow  pool  mimics  the 
ocean ;  and  yet,  as  we  kiss  the  bride,  and  grasp  the  hand 
of  her  possessor,  we  involuntarily  do  homage  to  the  bliss  of 
ignorance,  and  sigh  for  days  that  we  value  only  as  memo 
ries. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  first  puff  of  smoke  that  issued  from  the  chimney  of 
Holyoke's  house,  on  the  morning  following  the  wedding, 
was  noticed  by  a  dozen  watchful  and  waiting  eyes,  and  im 
mediately  reported  to  an  indefinite  number  of  waiting  ears. 
The  smoke  produced  at  the  original  discovery  of  fire  could 
hardly  have  been  a  subject  of  greater  interest.  Meanwhile, 
the  happy  little  household,  which  had  thus  unconsciously 
telegraphed  its  wakefulness  all  over  the  village,  was  busy 
in  its  preparations  for  breakfast.  Holyoke,  after  his  part  of 
the  household  duties  was  performed,  in  making  the  fire 
and  bringing  in  the  water,  found  great  enjoyment  in  watch 
ing  his  wife  and  her  brisk  waiting-maid,  as  they  bustled 
about  the  house  in  the  discharge  of  their  portion  of  the 
morning's  labor. 

At  length  the  bountiful  breakfast  was  smoking  upon  the 
table,  and  the  three  occupants  of  the  house,  in  a  charmingly 
merry  mood,  took  their  places  at  the  board.  In  an  instant, 
however,  Mary  was  silent,  and  awaiting  reverently  the 
pronunciation  of  a  petition  to  which  she  had  been,  from 
childhood,  a  listener  at  every  meal.  Holyoke  did  not 
notice  the  movement  at  once,  and  rattled  blithely  away  at 
his  chain  of  small  talk,  but  when  he  became  conscious  of 
his  position,  his  face  reddened  painfully.  Mary  detected 
his  embarrassment,  and,  divining  its  cause,  proceeded  with 
the  finest  tact  to  relieve  him  by  entering  upon  the  courtesies 
of  the  table. 

The  meal  was  eaten  in  a  different  spirit  from  that  with 
which  it  was  approached.  Buoyancy  and  mirth  disappeared, 

8* 


178  THE     BAT     PATH. 

and,  while  both  husband  and  wife  attempted  to  appear 
cheerful,  each  was  aware  of  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  that 
must  feel  the  touch  of  a  breeze  more  or  less  powerful 
before  it  would  restore  the  vision  of  a  bright  sun  and  a 
clear  sky. 

As  soon  as  the  breakfast  was  cleared  away,  Holyoke 
beckoned  his  wife  to  a  seat  at  his  side.  Looking  her  calmly 
and  solemnly  in  the  face,  he  said,  "Mary,  did  you  expect 
me  to  ask  a  blessing  at  the  table  this  morning?" 

"You  probably  saw  that  I  expected  it,"  replied  Mary. 

"Why  did  you  expect  it?"  inquired  Holyoke,  preserving 
his  solemn  tone  and  manner. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  reason  better  than  the 
fact  that  I  have  always  been  accustomed  to  the  ceremony, 
both  at  home  and  away,  and  saw  no  reason  why  any  Chris 
tian  should  decline  its  performance." 

"I  shall  pain  you,  perhaps,  my  dear  wife,"  said  Holyoke, 
grasping  her  hand  earnestly,  "but  I  have  been  so  much 
shocked  and  disgusted  by  the  manner  in  which  this  service 
is  performed,  that  it  seems  to  me  to  have  become  the  popu 
lar  way  of  dishonoring  God  rather  than  of  honoring  Him." 

rt  You  do  not  conclude,"  replied  Mary,  "  that  because  the 
service  is  improperly  performed,  it  is  improper  in  itself." 

"  Not  that,  because  there  is  nothing  like  intrinsic  impro 
priety  in  it ;  but  I  do  not  deny  that  I  believe  that  the  habit 
has,  very  generally,  a  bad  tendency." 

"  A  bad  tendency  ?"  inquired  Mary,  with  an  exclamatory 
accent. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  pained  and  surprised,  and  it  is  what 
I  expected,"  replied  Holyoke,  "  but  it  is  best  for  us  to  be 
frank.  You  wonder  how  a  service  so  intimately  associated, 
in  your  mind,  with  the  daily  duties  of  a  Christian  life,  can 
have  an  evil  tendency.  I  think  it  has  two  evil  tendencies. 
The  first  is,  by  a  frequent  rush  into  the  divine  presence 
from  the  distractions  of  the  world,  and  as  frequent  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  179 

violent  a  leap  out,  into  its  distractions  again,  or  into  the 
grosser  animal  delights,  to  break  down  and  destroy  all 
decent  reverence  for  God.  I  have  heard,  hundreds  of 
times,  a  blessing  pronounced  that,  in  its  relations,  in  the 
points  of  time  and  place,  was  the  sequel  to  a  very  laugh 
able  story,  or  the  connecting  link  between  the  laugh  that 
followed  it  and  the  sharpening  of  knives  and  the  clatter  of 
trenchers.  The  second  evil  tendency  is  in  begetting  in 
children  and  in  the  irreligious  a  disregard  of  religious  ser 
vices  of  every  kind,  and  a  scepticism  touching  religious 
character  and  experience.  They  are  the  most  relentless 
critics  of  inconsistency  in  religious  matters  in  the  world, 
and  a  Christian  can  no  more  come  into  God's  presence 
with  thoughtless  abruptness,  while  they  sit  near,  without 
hardening  them,  than  he  can  without  benumbing  his  own 
soul." 

Mary  did  not  know  what  to  reply  to  this,  for,  while  she 
was  not  convinced  of  the  entire  correctness  of  his  conclu 
sions,  she  saw  that  they  were  based  upon  truths  which  she 
could  not  deny. 

Holyoke  saw  her  hesitation,  and  resumed.  "  I  have  no 
doubt,"  said  he,  "  that  there  are  some  men,  perhaps  many, 
so  saintly  in  their  walk  and  holy  in  their  frame  that  they 
would  be  able  to  address  the  Deity  many  times  in  a  day, 
with  no  violent  transition  of  emotion  or  revulsion  of 
thought ;  but  these  men  are  comparatively  rare.  I  will 
not  deny  that  we  all  ought  to  be  such,  but  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  the  habitual  repetition  of  a  prayer  at  th~e  table, 
uttered  without  feeling,  and  often  mumbled  into  entire 
indistinctness,  is  a  legitimate  means  of  grace  for  the  pro 
duction  of  that  end.  I  count  it  a  great  thing  for  man  to 
approach  his  Maker  in  worship  and  petition.  It  seems  to 
me  that  no  one  should  do  this  without  a  spirit  stricken 
through  with  reverence,  and  profoundly  impressed  with 
the  sublime  presence  in  which  he  stands ;  and  to  go 


180  THE     BAY     PATH. 

through  with  this  form  simply  as  a  Christian  duty,  or  to 
fulfil  the  expectations  of  Christian  friends,  or  for  the  sake 
of  the  example,  or  for  any  cause  less  than  a  sincere  desire 
for  communion  with  God,  springing  freshly  with  every 
occasion,  and  clothed  in  a  reverence  which  is  its  becoming 
garb,  is  not  only  wounding  religion  in  the  house  of  its  friends, 
but  is  keeping  the  wound  open  and  bleeding."  » 

Mary  saw  by  Holyoke's  earnest  words  and  emphatic 
manner  that,  however  much  she  might  differ  with  him,  it 
was  not  becoming  in  her  to  dispute  his  positions  directly, 
and  therefore  attacked  them  indirectly  by  stating  that  she 
did  not  see  why  his  facts  and  his  reasoning  did  not  apply 
in  a  degree,  at  least,  to  the  observance  of  daily  prayers  in 
the  family. 

Holyoke's  face  burned  with  sudden  color,  and  his  heart 
throbbed  painfully  as  this  new  subject  was  introduced,  for, 
upon  this,  his  convictions  were  inharmonious  with  his  in 
clinations*  In  this  subject  he  had  a  feai'fully  practical 
interest.  It  was  one  which  had  occupied  many  of  his 
thoughts,  and  one  which  had  smitten  his  heart  with  sudden 
misgiving  every  tune  he  had  come  beneath  its  shadow. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  cases  are  parallel,"  said  he,  quietly, 
and  with  evident  disinclination  to  continue  the  discussion. 

"  Please  tell  me  .why,"  gently  insisted  Mary. 

"  In  one  case,"  replied  Holyoke,  "  we  approach  God 
without  preparation,  and  ask  him,  three  times  in  a  day,  to 
bless  our  food,  as  if  that  were  the  great,  and,  in  fact,  the 
only  gift  of  his  providence  that  deserves  a  recognition ;  in 
the  other,  we  come  with  offerings  as  well  as  prayers,  and 
with  such  preparation  as  the  contemplation  of  divine  truth 
is  well  calculated  to  bestow  upon  those  who  peruse  it.  We 
come  to  God  in  the  latter  case  with  worship,  with  con 
fession,  with  penitence,  with  thanksgiving,  with  fervent 
aspirations  for  a  stronger  faith,  a  higher  life,  and  a  broader 
Christian  experience;  we  come  in  the  fresh  hours  of  the 


THE     BAT     PATH.  181 

morning  and  in  the  hush  of  evening,  before  care  has  put  on 
its  fetters,  and  after  it  has  laid  them  aside ;  and  all  these 
exercises  and  conditions  of  heart  form  the  basis,  if  they  do 
not  the  very  essence  of  a  communion  with  God,  as  honor 
able  to  him  as  it  is  full  of  nourishment  and  strength  to  the 
soul." 

While  Holyoke  was  speaking  he  had  grown  earnest  and 
eloquent,  but  the  instant  he  concluded  he  involuntarily  put 
his  hand  to  his  heart,  while  his  lips  grew  pale  and  thin  with 
a  trembling  compression,  for  there  came  up  again  the 
practical  question  that  had  given  him  so  many  anxious 
thoughts.  His  embarrassment  was  not  relieved  as  Mary 
took  down  the  family  Bible — a  fresh  present  from  her 
father — and  bidding  Mary  Woodcock  to  be  seated,  com 
menced  reading  a  chapter  from  the  New  Testament.  Alas ! 
his  preparation  for  prayer  that  morning,  so  far  as  it  was 
drawn  from  a  consideration  of  Bible  truth,  was  very  small, 
for  he  sat  as  if  in  a  dream  while  the  reading  was  in  progress, 
his  mind  confused  and  his  heart  in  a  strange  tumult  of 
emotion. 

At  length,  the  dreaded  conclusion  of  the  chapter  came. 
The  voice  of  the  reader  was  hushed,  the  holy  book  was 
closed  and  replaced  upon  the  shelf;  but  Holyoke  still  sat 
in  silence,  his  features  rigidly  contracted,  and  his  heart 
beating  so  heavily  that  it  jarred  his  frame.  Silence  soon 
became  more  painful  than  speech,  and  he  burst  out  with, 
"  Mary,  I  can't  pray  this  morning." 

"  Cartt  pray  ?"  and  the  words  came  forth  from  Mary's 
lips  so  slowly,  so  charged  with  astonishment,  and  so  full  of  a 
kind  of  solemn  wonder,  that  Holyoke  involuntarily  lifted 
his  eyes  to  her's,  and  saw  them  springing  with  tears. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  bowing  his  face  upon  it  murmured, 
"  My  God  forgive  me !" 

Still  unmarried !  Wedded,  but  unwed !  Loving,  but 
not  made  perfect  in  love  !  United,  and  yet  separate  !  Thus 


182  THE     BAT     PATH. 

it  is  with  multitudes  of  hearts,  and  those  not  the  worst  in 
this  world.  The  heart  that  has  communed  with  God  most 
intimately  in  secret  often  shrinks  most  sensitively  from  giv 
ing  utterance  to  the  words  of  prayer  where  other  ears  than 
God's  can  hear.  Nay,  it  is  not  unfrequently  the  case  that 
those  who  have  the  most  intimate  relationship  in  life  exer 
cise  towards  each  other  a  most  rigid  reserve  upon  all  mat 
ters  which  touch  their  relations  to  God  and  religion,  while 
each  preserves  a  spirit  of  devotion,  and  leads,  so  far  as  an 
individual  may  without  coming  within  the  circle  of  social 
influence,  a  religious  life.  There  is  in  every  soul  possessing 
nice  sensibilities  an  indisposition  to  place  before  other  eyes 
a  revelation  of  its  wants,  its  wishes,  and  its  aspirations;  but 
until  a  husband  and  a  wife  can  kneel  together  and  realize 
the  sweetness  of  communing  like  children,  lovingly  and 
without  restraint,  with  their  common  Father,  marriage, 
though  it  may  be  to  them  a  band  around  a  golden  sheaf  of 
happiness,  has  the  weakness  of  the  straw,  and  is  neither  per 
fect  nor  secure. 

Holyoke's  eyes  were  hidden  for  a  minute,  and  then  look 
ing  up  convulsively,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Must  I  try  ?" 

"  You  will  never  have  a  better  time,"  replied  Mary. 

"  It  does  not  seem  possible." 

"  What  do  you  fear  ?"  inquired  his  wife. 

"  I  fear  myself — I  fear  you — I  fear  God — and  (bending 
his  face  down  to  her  ear)  I  fear  that  child.  I  cannot  help 
it.  I  fear  my  own  pride — that  my  speech  will  be  awkward 
to  your  ears,  and  thus  mortify  me,  or  elegant  and  make  me 
vain.  I  fear  that  I  shall  think  more  of  my  language  than 
the  spirit  from  which  it  should  spring.  I  fear  the  sound  of 
my  own  voice  in  this  room." 

Mary  sympathized  very  deeply  with  her  husband  in  this 
trial,  but  she  knew  that  the  time  for  the  struggle  and  the 
triumph  was  then.  So  she  gave  him  sweet  words  of  counsel 


THE     BAT     PATH.  183 

and  encouragement,  and  taking  his  hand  rose  upon  her 
feet. 

At  that  day,  in  all  the  Puritan  churches  and  families,  the 
standing  posture  was  always  assumed  in  prayer.  Kneeling, 
to  them,  was  what  the  beautiful  symbol  of  the  cross  is  to 
many  of  their  descendants — something  that  belonged  to 
and  was  characteristic  of  Popery — something  which  had 
been  tainted  and  had  the  power  to  taint  again. 

As  Holyoke  saw  his  wife  rise,  his  determination  was 
made,  and,  rising,  and  folding  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  he 
uttered  tremblingly  and  with  deliberate  distinctness,  the 
words,  "  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven."  The  spell  was 
broken,  and  with  all  the  simplicity  and  earnestness  of  a  child 
he  went  on,  and  poured  out  his  heart, — its  penitence,  its 
love,  its  trust,  and  its  many  wants,  and  when  he  uttered  his 
fervent  "  Amen,"  his  eyes,  as  well  as  those  of  his  wife,  were 
wet  with  tears.  And  when  those  eyes  met,  they  shone  with 
a  new  beauty,  and  beamed  with  a  more  perfect  trust.  Both 
felt  that  their  hearts  had  been  attuned  to  a  new  and  more 
exquisite  harmony. 

With  hearts  full,  they  turned  to  the  window,  hand  in 
hand,  that  even  a  child  might  not  be  the  witness  of  a  joy 
that  brimmed  their  cup  with  grateful  fulness,  and  trembled 
to  run  over  in  appropriate  expression.  Holyoke  felt  a 
strength  and  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  he  had  never  expe 
rienced  before.  There  was,  then,  perfection  of  communion 
between  him  and  the  being  he  loved  best ;  and  he  felt  how 
holy  and  beautiful  a  thing  was  marriage  when  it  united  those 
whose  steps  lead  heavenwards,  and  whose  highest  love  was 
already  there. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

WHILE  these  last  scenes  were  in  progress  at  the  house  of 
Holyoke,  those  of  a  very  different  character  were  in  process 
of  enactment  at  the  house  of  his  father-in-law.  Mr.  Moxon 
had  called  upon  Mr.  Pynchon  on  private  business,  and  had 
chosen  the  early  morning  hour  as  best  suited  to  his  purpose. 
The  magistrate  was  pained  to  find  upon  the  minister's  face 
the  same  wild  look  of  anxiety  that  he  had  witnessed  upon  a 
previous  occasion,  and  dreaded  another  exhibition  of  a  weak 
ness  that  was  suggestive,  at  least,  of  insanity. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  a  question,"  said  the  minister,  walk 
ing  backwards  and  forwards  across  the  room.  "  It  is  an 
abstract  question,  which  I  beg  you  to  consider  without  any 
relation  to  its  practical  bearings,  even  if  the  case  which 
prompts  it  should  occur  to  you.  It  is  one  which,  so  far  as 
it  goes,  interests  me  very  deeply."  x 

"  I  am  waiting  for  your  question,''  said  Mr.  Pynchon, 
after  watching  the  minister  for  a  minute,  as  he  paced  to  and 
fro,  and  smiling  at  his  own  conceit  that  the  gentleman  was 
treading  out  the  question,  as  if  he  thought  it  was  a  flooring 
of  wheat. 

"Do  you  suppose" — and  Mr.  Moxon  paused  for  a  better 
phrase — "  does  not  it  seem  possible  to  you — that  a  man  who 
would  give  away  his  child  would  sell  himself?'' 

"  And  this  is  what  you  wish  me  to  consider  as  an 
abstract  question  ?"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"You  consider  the  question  a  foolish  one,"  said  the 
minister,  pausing  and  biting  his  lip  with  vexation. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  185 

"  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  calmly. 

"  Mr.  Pynchon,  you  offend  me,"  said  the  minister,  sharply, 
for  he  was  mortified,  especially  as  he  had  been  exercised  by 
a  secret  conviction  all  the  time  that  he  was  doing  a  very 
silly  thing. 

"  Well,  sir,"  responded  the  magistrate,  with  another  smile, 
"  I  am  happy  to  believe  that  it  is  the  truth  I  tell  you  which 
is  offensive  rather  than  the  man  who  tells  it." 

"  That  remark,  sir,  is  not  less  offensive  than  the  other," 
replied  the  minister,  with  increased  bitterness ;  "  and  if 
these  are  the  kind  of  words  you  feel  disposed  to  give  me,  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  to  bid  you  a  good  morning."  Saying 
which  the  gentleman  moved  towards  the  door. 

"They  are  the  only  words  which  seem  proper  for  the 
occasion,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  very  decidedly,  "  and  so  long 
as  you  are  engaged  in  the  insane  pursuit  which  occupies 
you  this  morning,  they  are  the  only  kind  you  will/ have 
from  me.  I  did  not  ask  you  to  come  to  me  with  these 
vagaries,  and  I  trust  you  will  not  trouble  me  with  them 
again." 

So  long  as  Mr.  Moxon  believed  that  Mr.  Pynchon  had  no 
insight  into  his  motives,  he  felt  strong  and  indignant,  but 
his  pointed  allusion  to  an  insane  pursuit,  and  his  stigmatizing 
as  vagaries  the  thoughts  which  moved  him  so  deeply,  dis 
armed  him,  and,  dropping  the  latch  he  had  lifted,  he  walked 
back  to  where  Mr.  Pynchon  was  sitting,  and  settled  hesi 
tatingly  and  unbidden  into  a  chair. 

"  Excuse  my  heat  this  morning,  I  beg  you,  Mr.  Pynchon, 
for  I  am  not  well,"  said  the  minister.  "I  hardly  know 
what  I  have  said,  but  you  spoke  of  vagaries.  Will  you  be 
kind  enough  to  tell  me  what  you  meant  ?" 

"  If  you  will  hear  me  calmly  and  patiently,  I  will  tell  you 
with  perfect  frankness,  and  certainly  with  perfect  kindness,'' 
replied  the  magistrate. 

Mr.  M<5xon  turned  his  eyes  solemnly  upwards,  and  ex- 


186  THE     BAY     PATH. 

claimed,  "  Divine  grace  helping  me,  I  will  hear  you  in  a 
Christian  temper." 

• "  From  certain  mysterious  statements  which  you  made  to 
me  last  summer,  on  my  return  from  the  Bay,  and  from  the 
question  which  you  have  propounded'  this  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Pynchon,  "  I  have  come  to  the  opinion  that  the  Devil 
is  tempting  you  with  suspicions  that  he  has  an  agent  in  the 
settlement  who  is  operating  to  your  damage.  You  know 
that  Woodcock  bears  you  no  good  will,  and  he  is  very 
naturally  the  individual  whom  your  imagination  would 
clothe  with  the  malign  instrumentality.  In  other  words, 
you  believe  in  witchcraft,  and  are  strongly  suspicious  that 
its  influences  are  upon  you  and  your  house.  I  have  been 
plain  with  you  this  morning,  and,  as  you  have  chosen  to 
think,  severe,  because  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  you,  to 
the  plantation,  and  to  the  interests  of  religion,  to  be  so. 
Were  these  things  generally  known,  the  naturally  supersti 
tious  spirit  of  the  people  would  take  fire  at  once,  and  hell 
itself  would  hardly  be  less  tolerable  than  our  new  town  of 
Springfield." 

"  Do  you  not  believe  in  witchcraft  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Moxon, 
as  Mr.  Pynchon  closed. 

"  I  do  not  perceive  that  your  question  has  the  slightest 
relevancy  to  the  matter  in  hand,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon. 
"  I  do  not  believe  that  witchcraft  exists  here,  and,  least  of 
all,  do  I  believe  that  Woodcock,  whom  neither  you  nor  I 
can  buy,  would  sell  himself  to  the  Devil.  There  are  half-a- 
dozen  of  your  particular  friends,  and  mine,  too,  I  may  say, 
in  all  candor,  whom  I  would  suspect  of  such  a  disposal  of 
themselves  before  I  would  him." 

"  I  know  you  have  always  had  a  partiality  for  him," 
replied  the  minister,  without  any  attempt  to  deny  the 
genuineness  of  Mr.  Pynchon's  interpretation  of  his  lan 
guage  and  actions,  "  and  that  is  one  reason  why  I  have 
never  been  frank  with  you  in  relation  to  the  subject." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  187 

"  Then  I  am  right  ?" 

"  You  are  not  far  from  right." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  then,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon 
solemnly,  "  that,  in  giving  utterance,  or  even  secret  harbor, 
to  these  suspicions,  you  are  assuming  a  terrible  responsi 
bility.  If  you  can  assume  it  on  any  but  the  most  reliable 
grounds,  you  are  either  a  very  brave  or  a  very  heedless 
man." 

"  I  admit  what  you  say,"  said  the  minister,  "  and  if  you 
could  but  see  what  I  have  seen,  and  hear  what  I  have 
heard,  you  would  confess  that  I  have  reliable  grounds  for 
my  suspicions." 

"  Very  well ;  give  me  a  share  in  your  experience,"  re 
plied  the  magistrate.  "  Nothing  would  gratify  me  more 
than  an  opportunity  to  prove  to  you  the  fallacy  of  your 
conclusions." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  the  minister,  hesitatingly,  and  with 
a  slight  blush,  "  it's  Martha." 

"  I  thought  so,"  replied  the  magistrate,  with  a  smile. 

"  And  why  should  you  think  so  ?" 

"Because  I  know  the  child.  But  this  makes  no  differ 
ence.  I  wish  to  see  her  and  ascertain  whether  she  has 
deceived  you." 

"  Deceive  me !  Martha  deceive  me !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Moxon  convulsively ;  "  my  little  child  ?  my  little  simple- 
hearted  one  ?  Do  not  pain  me,  Mr.  Pynchon,  by  suspecting 
her  of  such  wickedness,  or  me  of  such  weakness !" 

"I  have  no  disposition  to  pain  you,  my  dear  sir;  but 
it  is  possible  that  a  little  pain  now  will  save  a  great  deal 
in  the  future.  But  tell  me  something  of  what  has  taken 
place." 

"  I  could  not  tell  you  a  tithe  of  what  has  taken  place. 
Besides,  I  can  see  how  many  things  which  have  made  a  pro 
found  impression  on  me  should  only  excite  your  ridicule, 
when  simply  narrated  to  you.  Martha  is  a  child  who  would 


188  THE     BAY     PATH. 

be  very  easily  bewitched,  and  is  by  her  constitution  pecu 
liarly  open  to  influences  from  the  unseen  world.  Until 
recently,  her  impressions  and  revelations  have  been  gene 
ral,  but  they  have  been  very  strange.  She  has  never  accused 
any  one,  but  she  shudders  when  Woodcock  walks  by  her, 
and  was  once  thrown  into  a  spasm  at  hearing  his  name  pro 
nounced.  I  have  questioned  her  considerably,  but  without 
arriving  at  any  very  satisfactory  results.  I  only  know  this : 
that  a  strange  and  unearthly  influence  is  upon  her,  and 
that  Woodcock  appears  to  be  more  or  less  connected  with 
it." 

"  I  think  I  can  get  at  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 
"  If  you  will  bring  your  child  here  after  dinner  to-day,  I 
hope  I  can  show  you — I  think  I  can  prove  to  you — that  you 
are  in  this  whole  matter  very  much  mistaken." 

"  I  should  be  unjust  to  you  and  my  child,  at  least,"  re 
plied  the  minister,  "  were  I  to  refuse  the  trial,  and  I  consent 
to  your  wish  very  cheerfully ;"  saying  which,  Mr.  Moxon, 
intent  on  the  new  aspect  of  affairs,  walked  out  of  the  house, 
forgetful  of  all  courtesies. 

After  the  minister's  departure,  Mr.  Pynchon  sat  for  a  long 
hour  engaged  in  reflection.  He  was  sickened  with  the 
prospect  which  Mr.  Moxon's  hallucinations  had  opened  to 
him,  and  he  was  sickened  with  the  man  himself.  He  was 
not  a  thorough  sceptic  in  regard  to  the  wonders  of  witch 
craft,  and  few  who  lived  in  his  day  could  boast  of  entire 
freedom  from  that  great  figment  of  superstition,  but  he  did 
not  believe  in  Martha  Moxon's  witchcraft  at  all,  and  was 
vexed  that  her  father,  with  the  great  affairs  of  the  Gospel 
ministry  upon  his  hands,  could  tolerate  such  idle  whims  for 
a  moment,  and  not  only  tolerate  but,  as  he  had  reason  to 
fear,  actually  implant  and  foster  them. 

Having  determined  upon  his  plan  of  procedure,  he"*walked 
out,  and  taking  Holyoke's  house  upon  his  way  in  a  brief 
call,  directed  his  steps  to  the  cabin  of  John  Woodcock 


THE     BAT     PATH.  189 

He  found  that  individual  within,  singing  merrily  away  at  an 
old  stave  while  engaged  in  cobbling  an  extremely  dilapi 
dated  shoe.  Mr.  Pynchon  informed  him  that  he  wished  to 
see  him  at  his  house  in  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon,  at 
such  a  time  as  he  should  signal  him  from  a  window,  and 
told  him  not  to  be  surprised  if  he  found  the  business  a 
strange  one.  Woodcock  promised  compliance,  and  when 
the  magistrate  departed  fell  into  a  brown  study,  or  more 
properly  a  highly  variegated  reverie,  not  unworthy  of  the 
brain  of  his  eccentric  daughter. 

The  first  surmise  of  the  old  man  was  that  news  had  been 
received  from  England  of  the  death  of  some  unknown  rela 
tive,  who  had  left  him  his  estate.  It  was  very  natural, 
therefore,  that  Mr.  Pynchon  should  invite  him  to  his  house, 
and  treat  him  with  the  respect  due  to  his  altered  fortunes. 
If  this  should  prove  to  be  the  fact  what  a  lady  he  would 
make  of  Mary !  He  would  give  her  such  a  fortune  that 
Holyoke  would  be  proud  to  adopt  her  as  a  daughter !  He 
would  build  a  house  that  should  outshine  any  and  every 
house  in  the  settlement,  and  that  should  be  Mary's !  And 
then  he  thought  of  the  minister,  and  ran  into  a  long  calcu 
lation  of  the  number  of  revenges  which  an  unlimited  amount 
of  money  would  enable  him  to  execute  upon  that  gentleman. 
He  concluded  at  last,  that  if  he  were  to  offer  to  build  a 
meeting-house  for  the  plantation  at  a  cost  of  five  thousand 
pounds,  on  condition  that  they  would  dismiss  Mr.  Moxon 
from  further  duty,  they  would  accept  the  offer  and  jump  at 
the  chance.  This  he  should  do  without  fail.  Then,  just  as 
the  minister  was  about  to  leave  the  village  on  his  way  back 
to  the  Bay,  he  would  go  up  to  him  and  say,  "  Here,  Moxon" 
— yes,  he  would  call  him  Moxon  or  George,  he  did  not 
know  which — "  Here,  Moxon,  take  your  six  pound  thirteen 
and  four  ;  I  guess  I've  had  that  out  of  you  one  way  and 
another.  When  you  come  this  way  ag'in  call,  and  if  I  can 
help  you  ag'in  by  a  little  slander,  I  shall  be  at  your  sarvice.'- 


190  THE     BAT     PATH. 

That  would  be  a  good  cut,  and  then  he  would  take  off  his 
hat  and  bow  to  him  a  hundred  times  as  he  retired. 

This  florid  dream  was  a  long  time  in  running  through 
Woodcock's  mind,  and  he  felt  so  contented  in  himself,  and 
was  so  enchanted  with  his  possession,  that  he  had  forgotten 
himself  and  the  world  of  stern  facts  around  him.  When  he 
awoke  he  threw  his  hammer  to  the  other  end  of  his  cabin, 
where  it  fairly  buried  its  face  in  the  wall,  and  exclaimed, 
"  You  miserable  old  fool !" — After  this,  he  burst  into  a  fit  of 
boisterous  laughing,  and  then,  picking  up  his  hammer,  re 
sumed  his  work. 

After  working  a  while  longer,  his  dreams  took  another 
complexion,  and  there  arose  in  his  mind  the  possibility  that 
the  visit  had  something  to  do  with  Mary.  Perhaps  the 
child  had  stolen  something,  or  there  was  a  suspicion  that  she 
had,  and  Mr.  Pynchon  wished  to  get  him  at  his  house  to 
make  an  inquiry  into  the  matter.  Perhaps  there  was  a  con 
spiracy  against  the  child,  with  Mr.  Moxon  at  the  head  of  it. 
If  such  should  prove  to  be  the  case,  he  should  take  that  gen 
tleman  by  the  throat,  and  exclaiming,  "  ah !  ha  !  old  wolf! 
I've  caught  you  killing  the  lambs,  have  I  ?"  he  would  shake 
him  till  his  face  was  blue,  and  kick  him  out  of  the  house  ; 
and  Woodcock  almost  leaped  upon  his  feet  with  the  excite 
ment  of  the  imaginary  encounter. 

But  suppose  there  was  merely  a  suspicion  that  she  had 
stolen  something,  and  the  circumstances  were  very  much 
against  her.  She  would  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break,  and  protesting  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  The  question  was  just  about 
to  be  decided  against  the  girl.  He  had  begun  to  be  con 
vinced  of  the  guilt  of  his  own  child.  At  this  moment, 
Mary  Pynchon — for  he  could  not  think  of  her  as  Mary  Hoi- 
yoke  yet — would  rush  into  the  room,  her  face  radiant 
with  joy,  and  bearing  in  her  hand  the  missing  article 
This  she  would  hold  up  triumphantly,  and  placing  it  on 


THE     BAY     PATH.  191 

her  father's  knee,  clasp  the  child  affectionately  in  her 
arras. 

When  this  gi'and  finale  was  reached,  Woodcock  was 
about  to  insert  the  bristle  of  a  waxed-end  into  the  puncture 
prepared  for  it,  but,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and 
partly  in  consequence  of  an  uncomfortable  mist  that  gather 
ed  about  his  eyes,  he  shot  a  long  inch  wide  of  the  mark. 
This  fact  re-awakened  him  to  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
been  dreaming,  and  kicking,  his  kit  into  confusion  and  the 
corner,  he  bestowed  upon  himself  a  variety  of  contemptuous 
epithets,  terminating  respectively  with  the  words  "  coot," 
"  fool,"  and  "  pewter-head,"  and  then  walked  out  into  the 
open  air  in  search  of  a  more  healthy  mental  atmosphere. 

But  the  morning  passed  very  slowly  away.  He  could  not 
relieve  his  mind  of  the  apprehension  that  an  event  very  im 
portant  to  him  was  about  to  occur.  His  mind  ran  into 
nearly  every  possible  channel  but  the  right  one,  and  as  the 
hour  approached,  he  had  settled  down  into  a  belief  that  a 
great  evil  was  impending  over  him  and  his  child.  His 
dreams  began  in  brightness  and  ended  in  darkness,  and 
when  at  last  the  expected  signal  appeared,  he  started  for 
the  house  of  the  magistrate  in  a  state  of  profound  dejec 
tion. 

Mr.  Moxon  and  his  daughter  had  been  at  the  house  of 
Mr.  Pynchon  for  half  an  hour  when  Woodcock  arrived. 
They  were  closeted  with  him  in  a  small  private  room,  and 
when  Woodcock  entered  the  house  he  was  shown  directly 
to  that  room.  The  moment  that  he  entered,  Martha  Moxon 
uttered  a  piercing  scream  and  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  fit,  where 
she  lay  for  several  minutes  foaming  at  the  mouth.  Mr.  Pyn 
chon  was  puzzled.  He  looked  first  at  the  child,  then  at 
Woodcock,  and  then  at  Mr.  Moxon,  who  was  praying  with 
blanched  lips  for  God's  mercy  on  himself  and  child. 

Woodcock  was  dumb  and  motionless  with  astonishment, 
it  seemed  so  unlike  a  common  fit,  was  induced  so  manifestly 


192  THE     BAY     PATH. 

by  his  appearance  at  the  door,  and  was  regarded  so  singu 
larly  by  the  child's  father,  and  by  Mr.  Pynchon.  Seeing 
that  they  took  no  measures  to  relieve  the  child,  he  exclaimed 
in  a  tone  well  charged  with  reproof,  "  Why  don't  you  cut 
the  chick's  riggin',  and  do  somethin'  for  her  ?" 

These  words  were  better  than  a  thousand  arguments  for 
the  reassurance  of  Mr.  Pynchon.  The  exhibition  had 
shaken  him,  but  Woodcock's  rough  reproof  testified  to  his 
own  thorough  honesty,  and  the  child's  delusion,  or  inten 
tional  deception.  In  the  meantime,  the  child  remained  upon 
the  floor,  with  her  eyes  rolled  wildly  up  at  the  ceiling,  the 
froth  issuing  from  her  mouth,  and  presenting  a  spectacle 
equally  terrible  and  disgusting.  Woodcock  watched  the 
group  a  moment  longer,  and  then  burst  forth  with  "  What 
in  the  Devil's  name  ! — " 

He  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  the  child  uttered 
another  scream,  and  subsided  into  violent  convulsions. 

"  Mr.  Pynchon,"  exclaimed  the  minister,  "  do  not  permit 
these  hellish  incantations  to  proceed."  Then  turning  to 
Woodcock  he  said,  "  Man,  beware !  Remember  the  ter 
rible  price  you  pay  for  this,  and  repent  in  time  !  Why  wih1 
you  persist  in  afflicting  this  innocent  child  ?" 

"  Me  'flictin'  her  f    Have  I  teched  your  young  one  ?" 

"  Yes,  it's  him,  father,"  exclaimed  the  child,  becoming 
conscious  in  a  moment,  and  pointing  her  finger  at  Wood 
cock.  "  It's  him  :  don't  you  see  the  blue  cat  on  his  shoul 
der,  whispering  in  his  ear  ?  Kitty,  kitty,  kitty,  come,  kitty !" 
and  the  little  girl  smiled  wildly,  and  held  out  her  hand  with 
an  enticing  motion  to  the  invisible  animal. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  little  slobber-chops  ?"  said 
Woodcock,  with  a  glance  at  each  shoulder,  and  one  hand 
on  his  head  to  see  if  that  were  in  its  place.  Then,  looking 
at  her  a  moment  longer  he  said,  "  She's  makin'  it,  Square, 
as  sure  as  guns.  I  ain't  a  'pothecary,  but  if  spankinj 
ain't  good  for  that  kind,  then  I  wouldn't  try  it,  that's  all." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  193 

Mr.  Pynchon  could  not  restrain  a  smile,  and  a  pleasantly 
inquisitive  glance  at  the  minister.  That  gentleman  stood 
looking,  at  his  child  with  a  stern  and  solemn  expression  of 
countenance,  but  deigned  no  reply  to  Woodcock's  accusa 
tion. 

"  Woodcock,  will  you  leave  the  room  for  a  few  minutes  ?" 
said  Mr.  Pynchon ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  retired,  he  ad 
dressed  the  same  request  to  the  minister.  Mr.  Moxon  paused, 
as  if  he  would  ask  a  question,  but  Mr.  Pynchon  checked 
hkn  with  a  motion  of  the  hand,  and  he  hesitatingly  complied. 
When  both  had  gone,  and  the  door  was  closed,  he  lifted  the 
little  girl,  who  had  gradually  recovered  from  her  strange 
fit,  to  his  knee,  and  asked  her  what  made  her  act  as  she  had 
done. 

"  He  made  me,"  replied  the  girl,  pointing  at  the  door,  and 
meaning  Woodcock. 

"  How  did  he  make  you  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  He  did  it  with  the  blue  cat,"  replied  the  child. 

"  The  blue  cat  ?  He  has  no  blue  cat,  and  you  have  not 
seen  any." 

"  Well,  I've  seen  one  at  my  brick  house,  and  it  had  red 
rings  round  its  eyes,  and  it  had — oh !  ever  so  many  little 
red  kittens,  every  one  of  them  made  out  of  bricks — " 

"  Stop !"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  authoritatively.  "Let  me  hear 
no  more  of  that  nonsense." 

The  child  looked  tremblingly  into  his  eyes,  and  was  silent. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  Martha,  I  am  going  to  call  John  Wood 
cock  into  the  room  again,  and  your  father  is  not  coming. 
Do  you  see  that  riding  stick  up  there  ?  Now  remember 
that  if  you  fall  down  in  a  fit  again,  or  scream,  or  talk  about 
blue  cats,  I  will  whip  your  shoulders  so  that  you  shall  have 
something  to  scream  about."  He  then  called  Woodcock, 
who  came  in  expecting  another  fit;  but,  on  approaching 
the  child,  and  finding  that  she  was  perfectly  calm,  he  sat 
down  opposite  to  her,  and  asked  her  to  come  and  sil  with  him. 

9 


194  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Go !"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  placing  her  upon  the  floor. 

She  walked  immediately  to  Woodcock,  and  he  lifted  her 
to  his  lap.  Mr.  Moxon  had  overheard  the  movements  that 
were  in  progress,  and  entered  the  room  unbidden,  at  the 
moment  when  Martha,  at  Mr.  Pynchon's  command,  was 
engaged  in  kissing  Woodcock's  rough  cheek.  It  would  be 
hard  to  tell  whether  it  were  the  flush  of  anger,  or  shame, 
or  fear,  that  burned  upon  Mr.  Moxon's  face,  as  he  saw  his 
child  in  what  seemed  to  him  a  foul  and  unnatural  act. 
Mr.  Pynchon  pointed  to  the  child  in  triumph,  and  ex 
claimed,  "  Your  daughter  is  no  more  bewitched  than  I 
am." 

"Martha!  get  down  and  come  to  me,"  exclaimed  the 
minister  shudderingly. 

In  any  other  mood,  Woodcock  would  have  given  the 
minister  bitter  language,  but  Mr.  Pynchon  had  used  a  word 
which  had  opened  to  him  the  secret  of  the  strange  scene. 
Slowly  he  comprehended  the  accusation  which  had  been 
made  against  him,  and  it  smote  him  dumb.  Meanwhile 
Mr.  Moxon  had.  folded  Martha  to  his  breast,  and  was  bend 
ing  tenderly  over  her,  and  Mr.  Pynchon  was  turning  from 
one  to  the  other  of  his  companions,  uncertain  what  course 
to  pursue  with  them.  He  was  relieved,  at  last,  by  the 
minister,  who,  with  a  look  full  of  angry  reproof,  said,  "  How 
do  you  decide  so  readily  that  the  child  is  not  bewitched  ? 
Perhaps  you  can  tell  what  enchantments  were  used  to  get 
this  trembling  child  into  that  man's  arms." 

Mr.  Pynchon  heaved  a  sigh  that  was  half  pity  and  half 
disgust,  and  evidently  restrained  himself  from  using  such 
language  to  the  infatuated  father,  in  the  presence  of  Wood 
cock,  as  he  was  powerfully  moved  to  use.  As  the  minister 
bent  over  his  child  she  raised  her  head  and  whispered  in 
his  ear.  She  evidently  made  a  request  to  return  home,  as 
he  rose  with  her  in  his  arms,  and  very  emphatically  saying 
"  then  you  shall  go  home,"  passed  out  of  the  house,  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  195 

left  Mr.  Pynchon  and  Woodcock  looking  silently  into  one 
another's  faces. 

The  magistrate  and  his  surprised  companion  preserved 
their  position  and  their  silence  for  a  long  minute  after  Mr. 
Moxon's  withdrawal,  as  if  they  had  made  a  private  agree 
ment  not  to  speak  until  he  was  beyond  a  hearing  distance. 
Woodcock  was  in  distress.  His  mind,  in  a  brief  time,  had 
ranged  through  the  field  of  consequences  that  would  na 
turally  be  opened  by  the  singular  suspicion  which  the 
minister  had  fastened  upon  him,  and  he  could  not  avoid  the 
conclusion  that  that  field  was  springing  thickly  with  trials 
and  sorrows. 

"  Where  do  you  'xpect  this  thing  is  goin'  to  fetch  up  ?" 
said  Woodcock,  at  last,  folding  his  arms  upon  his  knees, 
and  looking  with  renewed  earnestness  into  Mr.  Pynchon's 
face. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  replied  the  magistrate,  thoughtfully, 
"  that  he  must  necessarily  abandon  suspicions  that  are 
proved  to  be  so  groundless." 

"Well,  Square,"  said  Woodcock,  "I  don't  pretend  to 
be  any  smarter  than  other  folks,  but  I  k'now  Mr.  Moxon 
better'n  that.  Guessin'  is  a  great  deal  stronger'n  knowin' 
with  him.  Argyments  don't  stand  no  more  chance  with  his 
notions  than  a  hen's  egg  does  with  a  weasel.  He'd  suck  the 
yelks  right  out  on  'em,  and  hide  the  shells  in  his  coat  tails, 
and  swear  he  hadn't  seen  'em.  No,  sir, — there's  goin'  to  be 
a  fuss,  and  I've  got  to  catch  it.  He's  bewitched  the  young 
one,  and  she's  bewitched  him — all  the  bewitchin'  there  is — 
and  they  think  it's  me.  He's  been  peaceable  a  good  deal 
longer'n  I  s'posed  he  would,  but  he's  on  the  track,  and  he'll 
foller  it,  and  yelp  till  all  the  hounds  in  the  settlement  jine 
him." 

"  It  is  too  small  an  affair  for  Mr.  Moxon  to  pursue,  I  am 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  shaking  his  head  as  if  he  were  not 
entirely  sure,  after  all. 


196  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"  What  did  he  start  it  for,  then  ?"  said  "Woodcock.  "  It 
was  a  good  deal  smaller  then  than  'tis  now.  I  don't  know 
jest  what  you  think  of  his  preachin',  Square,  but  I've  heerd 
him  talk  half  a  day  on  littler  things'n  that,  and  I  b'lieve  he 
likes  such  things  better'n  anything  else.  I  think  a  good 
deal  of  religion,  if  you  can  only  get  hold  of  the  right  sort, 
but  his'n  ain't  that  sort  by  a  long  chalk.  I  never  see  a 
minister  stickin'  to  little  things,  such  as  didn't  come  to  any 
given  sum,  any  way,  but  what  he  had  an  onreasonable  re 
ligion,  and  I  never  see  one  that  had  an  onreasonable  religion 
that  didn't  make  a  jackass  of  himself — so !  there !"  And 
Woodcock  slapped  his  knee  spitefully,  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
walked  across  the  room  as  if  he  had  said  something  which 
he  expected  to  be  reproved  for. 

Mr.  Pynchon  knew  that  Woodcock  had  been  sufficiently 
provoked,  and  so  made  no  comment  on  his  remarks  about 
the  minister,  but  asked  him  what  course  he  supposed  that 
individual  would  pursue. 

"  I  think  he'll  shoot  low,  and  save  his  waddin',  till  you  go 
to  the  Bay  ag'in,  and  then  he'll  let  me  have  it  jest  back  o> 
the  fore-shoulder,  as  he  did  t'other  time.  You're  a  little 
too  much  for  him,  Square,  but  you've  got  him  mad,  and 
I've  got  to  stand  the  blowin'  for  both  on  us.  Not  that  I 
care  any  great  shakes  about  it  on  my  own  account,  'cause 
I'm  used  to't." 

"  Woodcock,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon  cordially,  "  you  gratify 
me  very  much  by  commanding  your  temper  so  well  this 
morning." 

"  Now,  Square,  stop  that,  or  you'll  get  me  mad,"  said 
Woodcock  sharply,  and  reddening  in  an  instant.  "  'Taint 
no  compliment  to  tell  me  my  pluck's  gone,  and  if  you  want 
to  raise  the  devil  in  me  right  straight  off,  all  you've  got  to 
do  is  to  stroke  my  back  and  call  me  a  good  feller." 

"  I  may  think  what  I  choose  about  you,  I  suppose,"  said 
Mr.  Pynchon  smiling,  "  provided  I  say  nothing  about  it." 


THE     BAT     PATH.  197 

"  It'll  be  better  for  the  minister  if  you  keep  mum,  for  if 
I  r'ally  thought  you  s'posed  I  was  layin'  low  'cause  I  was 
gettin'  good,  I'd  make  pumice  of  him  'fore  he  was  an  hour 
older." 

"  What  serious  objection  have  you  to  being  called  good?" 
inquired  Mr.  Pynchon  curiously. 

"  I  ain't  good,"  replied  Woodcock  decidedly.  "  I'm  bad, 
and  gettin'  worse,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  you  think  I'm 
gettin'  any  better.  I  sh'd  be  ashamed  to  grow  good  on 
sech  fodder  as  I've  had  in  this  plantation.  It's  mighty  poor 
stock  that'll  do  it,  and  I  don't  belong  to  the  breed." 

"  We  all  notice  that  you  are  changed  in  your  temper," 
said  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  and  I  see  no  way  for  you  to  do  but  to 
let  us  call  it  for  better  or  worse,  as  it  pleases  us." 

"Do  you  r'ally  s'pose  the  folks  round  here  think  I'm 
gettin'  good  ?"  inquired  Woodcock,  with  an  air  not  unlike 
that  of  injured  innocence. 

"  With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Moxon,  I  presume  they  do." 

"  Then  they're  a  sweet  set  of  fools — that's  all.  Now  I'll 
tell  you,  Square,  jest  how  'tis,  and  what  it  all  started  from. 
When  I  was  layin'  by,  after  that  overhaulin'  the  minister 
give  me,  last  Spring,  I  was  walkin'  in  the  woods,  thinkin' 
about  that  matters  and  things,  worryin'  about  that  gal  of 
mine,  and  wonderin'  how  I  was  goin'  to  fetch  round,  when 
out  shot  a  hen  patridge  with  one  wing  lopped  clean  down 
to  the  ground  ;  and  she  kept  hoppin'  and  limpin'  ahead  on 
me,  and  lettin'  me  almost  get  up  to  her  till  I'd  chased  her 
a  good  long  stretch,  when  all  at  once,  jest  as  I  was  hittin' 
her  a  rap,  she  up  and  off  as  sound  as^  nut  and  straight  as 
a  string.  Then  I  mistrusted  the  critter,  and  turned  round 
and  went  back  to  where  she  started  out.  I've  got  a  tol'able 
good  eye,  and  pretty  quick  I  saw  a  little  young  patridge, 
jest  hid  under  a  leaf,  and  standin'  as  still  as  a  mouse.  Well, 
Squire,  I  sot  right  down  on  a  stone,  and  went  to  thinkin'  to 
see  if  I  couldn't  learn  somethin'  from  the  old  bird.  Says  I, 


198  THE     BAT     PATH. 

'  Woodcock,  you  ain't  'xactly  a  hen  patridge,  but  you're  kind 
o'  wild,  and  you  have  got  a  wild  young  one.  Now  when 
the  Square  gets  back,  you  try  to  get  into  the  plantation 
ag'in,  and  if  you  do,  get  your  young  one  under  a  leaf,  and 
then  limp  and  let  your  wing  lop  down,  and  make  'em 
think  you're  as  good  as  bagged,  till  they  forget  all  about 
the  young  one.'  Well,  you  know  I  got  the  young  one 
under  just  the  leaf  I  wanted  to,  and  I've  kept  my  wing 
down,  and  it's  done  the  work,  too,  till  now ;  but,  Lord !  I 
ain't  any  more  a  tame  patridge  than  I  be  a  spavined  salmon." 

At  this  characteristic  conclusion  of  Woodcock's  exposi 
tion  of  his  policy  and  motives,  Mr.  Pynchon  laughed  heartily, 
and,  rising  to  his  feet,  said,  "  Well,  John,  you  placed  the 
young  one  still  further  under  the  leaf  last  night,  and  I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  keep  the  wing  down  still." 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  Holyoke'll  do  with  that  gal  of 
mine?"  inquired  Woodcock,  with  an  affected  carelessness 
of  manner. 

"  I  imagine  that  he  has  come  to  no  conclusion  yet — he 
has  hardly  had  time,"  replied  the  magistrate. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  he'll  do  pretty  much  as  his  wife  says,  and 
I  know  she  likes  her.  Don't  you  think  she's  a  goin'  to  'arn 
her  livin'  ?" 

"  She  appears  to  be  bright  and  industrious." 

"  Now,  don't  you  s'pose  if  she  didn't  see  the  old  one 
round  she'd  get  tame,  and  folks  would  forget  where  she 
was  hatched  ?"  and  Woodcock  put  on  a  very  transparent 
look  of  unconcern,  and  snapped  his  finger  with  an  ease  that 
was  very  uneasy. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  ask  whether  for  the  sake  of  your 
daughter  you  had  better  leave  the  plantation  ?" 

"  That's  jest  it,  Square,"  replied  Woodcock.  "  You  see  I 
don't  care  anything  about  this  witchcraft  business  myself, 
only,  if  I  hadn't  a  young  one  to  look  after,  it  wouldn't  be 
safe  for  a  man  to  p'int  his  finger  to  me  and  say,  'broom 


THE     BAY     PATH.  199 

sticks'  more'n  a  dozen  times.  He'd  lay  down  kind  o'  care 
less,  and  I  should  stomp  on  him.  But  the  gal  makes  the 
trouble.  You  see,  I  don't  want  to  be  a  drawback  on  her, 
and  I've  been  thinkin'  that  p'r'aps  I'd  better  say,  that  if  you 
should  find  me  gone  some  time,  and  I  shouldn't  come  back, 
and  you  didn't  know  where  I'd  gone  to,  I  want  to  have 
what  little  land  I've  planted  here  to  go  to  Mary  when  she 
gets  old  enough,  and  help  support  her  till  she  does." 

Mr.  Pynchon  read  in  Woodcock's  tone  and  manner  the 
nature  of  the  conclusion  to  which  he  had  arrived.  He  saw 
that  he  believed  that  Mr.  Moxon  would  pursue  his  persecu 
tions  further,  and  that  it  was  only  his  consideration  for  his 
child  that  kept  him  from  visiting  the  minister  with  savage 
vengeance  ;  and,  while  he  disliked  to  part  with  the  man,  it 
seemed  evident  that  it  was  for  the  peace  of  the  plantation 
and  the  good  of  all  concerned,  for  him  to  quietly  withdraw. 

He  saw  that  the  difference  between  him  and  Mr.  Moxon 
had  become  utterly  irreconcilable,  and  that  the  introduction 
of  a  new  element  of  discord,  which  from  its  nature  would 
be  likely  to  involve  the  welfare  of  the  settlement,  would 
serve  to  extend  a  feud  which  was  yet  within  limits.  So  he 
told  Woodcock  that  he  would  bear  his  request  in  mind,  and 
see  to  its  execution  whenever  the  supposed  emergency 
should  occur,  but  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  take  no 
hasty  action. 

Woodcock  took  his  leave  of  the  magistrate,  and  walked 
slowly  away,  with  his  head  bent  down  reflectively,  and  his 
hands  grasping  each  other  behind  his  back.  He  was  think 
ing  of  a  project  he  had  formed  months  before — a  project 
based  on  the  supposition  of  such  a  juncture  in  his  affairs  as 
he  had  already  reached.  He  had  for  several  months  thought 
it  probable  that,  considering  Mr.  Moxon's  hatred  of  him,  a 
time  would  come  when,  to  save  the  reputation  of  his  child, 
or  to  keep  her  free  from  unpleasant  or  unpopular  associa 
tions,  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  retire  from  the  settle- 


200  THE     BAY     PATH. 

ment,  and  he  had  laid  all  his  plans  for  that  event.  He  had 
not  a  donbt  that  if  he  should  remain,  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  accused,  of  being  a  wizard  would,  in  some  manner, 
become  known,  while,  if  he  should  retire,  Mr.  Moxon  would 
have  parental  affection  sufficient  to  induce  him  to  keep  his 
secret.  He  had  arrived  opposite  to  the  house  of  Holyoke, 
when,  upon  raising  his  eyes,  he  saw  his  daughter  smiling  at 
the  window.  He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  enter 
the  house,  where  he  was  greeted  very  cordially  by  Holyoke 
and  his  wife,  both  of  whom  detected  the  cloud  upon  his 
features,  and  made  sympathetic  allusion  to  it. 

"  Well,  I  BE  troubled,"  said  Woodcock  emphatically, "  but 
I  don't  make  a  p'int  of  goin'  round  to  tell  on't ;  leastways, 
I  wouldn't  fetch  my  troubles  here." 

"  I  do  not  know  of  a  better  place,"  said  Mary  Holyoke 
smilingly,  "  and  you  certainly  ought  to  carry  them  some 
where." 

"  I  never  do,"  replied  Woodcock. 

"  And  what  do  you  do  with  them  ?" 

"  Let  'em  mull." 

"And  here  you  have  given  me  your  companion,  your 
comfort,  your  own  child !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  the  tears 
springing  to  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  want  to  do  me  any  good,  look  after  her.  I'll 
take  care  o'  myself.  My  troubles  are  nothin'  to  anybody, 
and,  if  she  comes  out  right,  they  aint  anything  to  me." 

"  I  will  certainly  do  the  best  I  can  with  her,"  said  Mary, 
"  and  she  seems  well  disposed  to  do  everything  she  can  for 
me." 

"  Can  she  pay  her  way  ?"  inquired  Wooddock  earnestly, 
and  as  if  the  question  contained  the  very  meat  of  the 
matter. 

The  reply  to  this  question  was  interrupted  at  the  com 
mencement  by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  Mr. 
George  Moxon. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

WHEN"  Mr.  Moxon  left  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  he 
proceeded  homewards,  carrying  his  child  in  his  arms  the 
whole  distance.  Arriving  at  his  house,  he.  laid  her  upon 
the  bed,  and,  bending  over  her,  asked  her  how  she  felt. 
She  made  him  no  reply  for  several  minutes,  when  she 
startled  him  by  a  sudden  cry  of  pain,  and  the  exclamation 
— "  Oh !  stop  him !  stop  him  !  He's  sticking  pins  into 
me!" 

"  Where,  child  !  where  ?"  inquired  the  distressed  father. 

"  In  my  foot — in  my  back — all  over  me,"  replied  the 
child. 

She  was  immediately  undressed,  and  from  the  delicate 
skin  the  blood  was  starting  at  several  points  upon  her  body 
and  limbs.  After  being  carefully  covered  she  lay  still  for 
several  minutes,  when  she  began  to  complain  of  sickness  at 
the  stomach,  and  soon  vomited  forth  upon  the  floor  an 
offensive  mass,  in  which  were  distinctly  seen  a  number  of 
crooked  pins — a  fact  from  which  the  minister  concluded 
that  the  pricking  had  been  done  from  within  outwards. 
Poor  Mrs.  Moxon  stood  at  a  distance  in  great  distress, 
looking  pitifully  fearful,  wan,  and  woe-begone.  Broken- 
spirited  and  feeble  in  body)(the  strange  calamity  in  whose 
presence  she  stood  had  paralysed  her,  and  she  could  only 
impotently  wring  her  hands,  and  weep,  and  utter  feeble 
ejaculations  of  prayer  to  God  for  help. 

When  the  vomiting  had  ceased,  Martha  turned  back 
upon  the  bed,  as  if  entirely  exhausted,  and,  after  lying  upon 
her  back  a  few  minutes,  with  her  eyes  closed,  she  opened 

9* 


202  THE     BAY     PATH. 

them  wildly,  and  rolling  them  upwards,  fixed  them  stiffly, 
in  an  unwinking  gaze,  upon  the  rough  ceiling.  "  I  see 
them !  I  see  them !"  she  exclaimed  softly,  into  her  father's 
ear,  as  he  bent  over  her ;  "  Oh !  what  beautiful  little  kit 
tens!  and  the  old  blue  cat  has  got  one  of  them  in  her 
mouth  !  Oh !  my  neck !  my  neck  !  She's  biting  the  kit 
ten  !  There  !  the  kitten  has  got  away !  Good !  Good  !" 
and  the  little  girl  clapped  her  hands  merrily,  while  her  face 
retained  its  strained  and  rigid  expression.  "  Oh !  papa  !" 
continued  the  child,  "  do  you  see  those  six  white,  beautiful 
fingers  sticking  down  out  of  the  boards?  Arn't  they 
pretty!  oh!  they're  just  as  pretty  as  they  can  be!  and 
there  is  the  old  cat  sucking  one  of  them,  and  there  go  the 
kittens  !  Every  one  of  them  is  mucking  a  finger,  and  there 
they  hang,  swinging  at  the  fingers  all  the  time — oh ! 
wouldn't  it  be  funny  to  catch  hold  of  their  tails  and  pull 
them  off?  *  *  *  *  There  they  go !"  exclaimed  the 
child,  "  the  fingers  have  pulled  them  right  up  through  the 
boards." 

As  she  uttered  the  last  words,  her  features  relaxed,  and 
returned  to  their  natural  expression,  and  she  turned  her 
face  pleasantly  towards  her  father,  and  exclaimed,  "  I'm  so 
glad  he's  gone !  He  was  too  bad  to  hurt  me  so." 

"  Who  do  you  mean,  Martha  ?"  inquired  the  minister 
tenderly. 

"John  Woodcock,"  replied  the  child,  and  then  added, 
"  wasn't  he  cruel  to  squeeze  my  ankle  ?" 

The  father  had  ceased  to  be  astonished  at  any  of  the 
child's  revelations,  and  immediately  turned  off  the  bed 
clothes  to  see  what  new  wonders-  the  invisible  John  W  ood- 
cock  had  wrought.  He  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  find 
around  the  child's  ankle  the  marks  of  a  firmly  grasped  hand, 
even  to  the  sharp  indentations  of  the  finger  nails. 

"  When  did  he  do  this  ?"  inquired  the  father. 

"Just  now,  when   the  blue  cat  and  her  kittens  were 


THE     BAY     PATH.  203 

here,"  replied  the  child.  "  Didn't  you  see  him !  He  was 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed  all  the  time." 

"  Why  didn't  you  cry  out,  and  tell  me  he  was  here  ?" 
inquired  the  father  earnestly. 

"  Because  he  told  me  not  to  say  a  word  about  him,  for, 
if  I  did,  he  would  throw  me  out  of  the  window." 

"  Did  he  go  out  of  the  window  ?" 

"  No ;  he  went  out  of  the  hole  where  the  latch-string 
comes  through." 

There  was  one  witness  to  these  exhibitions  and  revelations 
to  whom  little  attention  had  ever  been  paid.  This  was  the 
second  child  of  the  minister,  Rebekah.  She  had  looked  on, 
sometimes  in  terrified  silence,  but  never  without  an  absorbing 
interest.  Every  word  uttered  had  been  indelibly  stamped 
upon  her  memory,  and  the  whole  subject  and  all  its  associa 
tions  had  become  invested  with  the  most  intense  fascination. 
She  said  nothing,  but  she  saw  every  motion,  heard  every 
word,  revolved  them  in  her  childish  meditations,  and 
dreamed  of  them  in  her  sleep. 

During  the  scene  which  has  just  been  described,  she  had 
climbed  upon  a  chair,  and  gazed  with  wondering  eyes  upon 
her  sister's  contortions,  and  drunk  in  greedily  her  strange 
utterances.  Just  as  Martha  had  designated  the  point  of 
Woodcock's  exit,  her  father  accidentally  turned  to  Rebe 
kah,  and  saw  her  staring  with  a  strangely  rigid  expression 
at  the  latch.  He  spoke  to  her,  but  she  did  not  stir,  but 
gazed  steadily  at  the  object  upon  which  she  had  fixed  her 
eye.  He  turned  and  took  her  hand,  but  it  was  rigid  and 
cold,  and,  grasping  her  in  his  arms  in  a  hurried  alarm,  he 
found  her  insensible,  and  in  a  trance. 

This  new  affliction  was  too  much  for  both  father  and 
mother.  The  child  was  laid  upon  the  bed  with  her  sister, 
while  the  parents,  giving  themselves  up  to  wild  ejaculations 
and  groans  and  cries,  alternately  bent  over  the  new  victim 
of  Satan,  and  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room. 


204  THE     BAT    PATH. 

Martha  was,  however,  possessed  with  perfect  calmness. 
She  lay  quietly  by  the  side  of  her  little  sister,  embraced  her 
with  childish  caresses,  asked  her  to  awake,  and,  finally, 
commenced  singing  to  her.  This  brought  the  parents  to 
silence,  and  the  mother,  naturally  returning  to  her  old 
habits,  dropped  upon  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  coverlet.  In  any  other  mood,  and  at  any 
other  time,  her  husband  would  have  reproved  her  for  as 
suming  so  heretical  a  posture,  but  his  superstitious  fears 
had  been  so  far  wrought  upon,  that  he  had  begun  to  mis 
trust  that,  perhaps,  God  was  visiting  him  with  terrible 
judgments  for  non-conformity — that  he  had  strayed  away 
from  the  true  fold. 

He  watched  his  wife  for  a  moment,  looked  out  of  the 
window  to  see  if  any  one  was  near,  stepped  to  the  door  and 
made  it  fast,  and  then  knelt  by  her  side,  and  gave  utterance 
to  a  prayer  which  was  momently  interrupted,  from  its 
commencement  to  its  close,  by  convulsive  sobs  and  choking 
throes  of  mental  pain. 

Both  remained  kneeling  for  some  minutes  after  the  close 
of  the  prayer,  and  when,  at  length,  they  lifted  their  eyes, 
they  saw  their  younger  daughter  looking  silently  and  plea 
santly  into  the  face  of  the  older  one,  who  sat  regarding  her 
with  a  gratified  and  affectionate  smile. 

This  sudden  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs  would  have 
brought  an  unmixed  joy  to  the  heart  of  the  minister,  had  it 
not  so  immediately  followed  a  prayer  uttered  upon  his  knees. 
But  doubts  rose  out  of  his  joy  like  an  armed  host,  to  beat 
him  back  into  the  realm  of  misery  he  had  so  long  inhabited. 

Turning  from  his  children,  he  paced  forwards  and  back 
wards  across  the  apartment,  wondering  if  this  were  not  the 
way  God  had  chosen  to  bring  him  back  to  the  true  church, 
and  to  condemn  his  present  convictions  and  connexions. 
Oh,  that  Uod  would  rend  the  heavens  and  come  down  !  that 
he  would  stand  and  converse  with  him,  and  tell  him  in 


THE     BAY     PATH.  205 

language  that  he  could  not  misunderstand,  what  he  should 
do  to  avert  His  judgments ! 

Then,  as  he  reviewed  the  circumstances  and  events  of  the 
occasion,  another  swarm  of  doubts  came  against  him,  from 
another  direction.  If  this  were  the  Devil,  operating  directly 
or  indirectly  upon  his  children ;  if  the  children  had  been  in 
his  power,  was  not  their  release  from  his  influence  evidence 
that  he  had  been  conciliated  by  the  very  prayer  which  had 
just  been  regarded  as  the  procurer  of  God's  favor  ?  Had 
not  the  Adversary  been  pleased  by  seeing  him  and  his  wife 
upon  their  knees  once  more  ?  Was  it  not  a  promise  from 
the  great  enemy  of  souls  to  abstain  from  hurting  the  chil 
dren,  on  condition  that  the  parents  would  return  to  the 
bosom  of  the  church  from  which  they  had  gone  out?  These 
two  orders  of  questions  could  only  result  in  confusion,  and 
it  was  in  the  utter  hopelessness  of  their  resolution  that  he 
took  his  hat,  and,  re-assuring  himself  of  the  recovery  of  his 
children,  passed  out  of  his  house  into  the  open  air. 

The  atmosphere  was  raw  and  chilly,  portending  a  storm. 
Rustling  leaves  were  driving  across  the  street,  sometimes 
in  parti-colored  flocks  and  sometimes  singly,  clinging  here 
and  there  to  a  stump  or  a  stone,  and  pausing  tremblingly 
in  their  leaps ;  sometimes  rushing  into  heaps  in  the  hollows 
and  smothering  themselves,  and  here  and  there  holding 
themselves  by  a  splinter,  and  fluttering  like  a  smitten  bird. 

The  clouds  were  dull  and  cold,  and  as  the  minister  looked 
up,  the  very  heavens  seemed  barred  against  him,  while  all 
the  elements  were  in  conspiracy  around  him  to  shut  him  up 
within  the  circle  of  his  miseries.  The  house  of  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon  had  always  been  his  place  of  resort  when  his  own 
home  had,  for  any  reason,  become  intolerable,  but  he  had 
sufficient  reasons  for  not  bending  his  steps  in  that  direction. 
He  felt  that  he  had  been  offended — almost  insulted  there, 
and  the  wound  was  too  fresh  for  sudden  closure. 

There  never  had  been  another  house  in  the  settlement  which 


206  THE     BAY     PATH. 

had  any  real  charms  for  him,  and,  as  he  drew  his  coat  around 
him,  and  buttoned  it  closely  against  the  chilling  wind,  he 
walked  aimlessly  along  the  street,  until  Holyoke's  new  dwell 
ing  came  in  sight.  He  felt  that  he  had  no  special  errand 
there,  at  a  date  so  closely  succeeding  the  wedding,  but  he 
determined  to  enter,  and  inquire  after  the  health  of  the 
family,  if  nothing  more.  At  his  entrance  he  disturbed,  as 
has  already  been  recorded,  a  conversation  in  progress  be 
tween  Mary  Holyoke  and  "Woodcock,  and  it  may  well  be 
imagined,  in  view  of  his  recent  experiences,  that  the  latter 
individual  was  the  one,  of  all  in  the  settlement,  whom  he 
least  wished  to  encounter.  The  sight  of  Woodcock  threw 
him  entirely  off  his  .balance,-  and  made  him  forgetful  of  all 
forms  of  politeness.  t 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here  ?"  exclaimed  the  minister, 
in  a  harsh  and  authoritative  tone,  to  Mary  Holyoke. 

"  Not  long — I  cannot  tell  you  how  long,  sir,"  replied 
Mary,  wonderingly. 

"  Long  enough  to  find  out  that  there's  a  lady  here,  and 
that  she's  got  a  husband,"  said  Woodcock,  answering  for 
himself,  and  rising  from  his  chair. 

Mr.  Moxon  turned  upon  the  old  man  a  look  of  mingled 
anger,  scorn,  and  fear,  but  without  deigning  to  address  him, 
said,  "  Mary,  how  can  you  harbor  such  a  man  ?  How  can 
you  have  him  near  you  ?" 

"  He  has  never  harmed  me,  sir,"  said  Mary,  "  and  I  am 
sure  he  never  will." 

"Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  sold,  body  and  soul,  to 
Satan,  and  that  his  hands  are  still  hot  from  his  infernal  work  ?" 
half  shouted  the  minister.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  the 
strange  power  by  which  he  commends  his  boorish  manners 
and  uncouth  speech  to  your  good  will  is  borrowed  from  the 
Adversary  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  one  of  the  Devil's 
foulest  minions  is  here  in  your  house,  undermining  your 
peace,  and  planting  thorns  for  your  feet  ?" 


THE     BAT     PATH.  207 

Mary  looked  imploringly  at  Holyoke,  and  he  came  for 
ward,  motioning  to  her  to  retire.  "Walking  coolly  up  to  the 
minister,  and  looking  him  steadily  in  the  eye,  he  said,  "  Yoit 
are  either  insane  or  impertinent ;  now  tell  me  which." 

The  minister  stared  at  him  fiercely  for  a  moment,  but 
quailed  before  his  unbending  eyes,  and  apologetically  said 
that  he  had  doubtless  acted  in  a  manner  which  was  widely 
open  to  misconstruction,  but  that  when  the  facts  should  be 
known,  Holyoke  would  not  only  understand  the  nature  of 
his  feelings,  but  would  forgive  any  seeming  extravagances 
into  which  they  might  have  led  him. 

"  I  accept  your  apology,  and  trust  that  you  and  our  friend 
Woodcock  will  adjust  your  differences,  and  have  no  further 
trouble." 

"  I  make  no  compromises  with  Satan,  or  peace  with  the 
sons  of  Belial,"  said  the  minister,  glowering  fiercely  upon 
Woodcock. 

That  individual,  who  had  stood  with  some  impatience 
watching  the  progress  of  affairs,  could  restrain  his  tongue 
no  further,  and  burst  into  the  conversation  with,  "  I  ain't 
Satan,  nor  I  ain't  a  son  of  Belial ;  my  father's  name  was 
John  and  so  was  his  afore  'im,  for  that  matter,  but  if  I  was, 
and  there  was  any  prospect  of  you're  ever  comin'  to  live 
with  me,  I  should  send  you  my  respects,  and  ask  you  to 
stick  to  your  mind,  till  after  my  door  was  shet." 

"  Imp  of  Satan  !"  growled  the  minister,  "  how  dare  you 
profane  this  Christian  house  by  such  godless  words  ?" 

During  the  conversation,  Mary  Woodcock,  who,  Avhen  it 
commenced,  was  in  another  part  of  the  house,  came  in,  and 
became  immediately  interested  in  its  progress.  She  watched 
the  minister  closely,  and  as  she  faintly  comprehended  the 
terrible  epithets  he  was  heaping  upon  her  father,  her  eyes 
flashed,  the  old  bright  spark  began  to  burn  on  either  cheek, 
and  she  only  wanted  action  to  be  the  highest  impersonation 
of  a  fury ;  and  this  condition  did  not  remain  long  unsup- 


208  THE     BAY     PATH. 

plied.  The  last  bitter  address  of  the  minister  was  no  sooner 
uttered,  than  she  crossed  the  room  like  a  cat,  grasped  his 
hand,  and,  drawing  it  to  her  mouth,  fastened  her  teeth  into 
it  before  he  could  guess  what  she  was  doing.  Her  jaws 
came  spitefully  together,  her  teeth  almost  meeting  between 
the  bones. 

"Hell-cat!"  groaned  the  minister  in  an  agony  of  pain, 
and  snatched  his  hand  from  her  teeth  with  a  suddenness 
and  power  that  almost  lifted  her  from  her  feet. 

"  Oh !  my  God !  Mary,"  exclaimed  Woodcock,  in  a  tone 
of  extreme  distress,  "it's  all  over  with  me  now!"  ' 

The  child  had  no  sooner  given  expression  to  her  intense 
anger  than  she  ran  to  Mary  Holyoke,  who  was  sitting  upon 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  lap, 
gave  herself  up  to  her  old  hysterical  sobs  and  cries. 

Woodcock  was  greatly  troubled.  That  sudden  move 
ment  of  his  child  was  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  revealing 
upon  the  wall  of  the  dark  future  the  record  of  her  fate. 
His  sole  aim  had  long  been  to  keep  her  dissociated  from 
himself,  and  to  associate  her  as  much  as  possible  with  those 
against  whom  no  one  should  dare  to  breathe  a  word ;  but 
she  had  incurred  the  anger  of  the  very  man,  who,  for  her 
sake;  he  most  feared.  It  ruined  in  a  moment  all  his  hopes, 
destroyed  his  plans,  and  impressed  him  with  the  belief  that 
his  daughter  was  designed  for  a  fate  not  unlike  his  own. 

Holyoke  was  deeply  mortified  that  the  event  should  have 
occurred  in  his  house,  but,  as  the  father  of  the  child  was 
present,  he  simply  expressed  his  sorrow  for  the  occurrence, 
and  referred  to  Woodcock  as  the  individual  from  whom 
apology  and  reparation  were  due. 

"I'm  sorry  the  thing  is  done,  the  Lord  knows,"  said 
Woodcock,  "for  the  gal's  sake,  and  the  sake  of  the  house 
she  belongs  to,  but  I  ain't  goin  to  back  out,  and  leave  her 
in  a  scrape  she  got  into  on  my  account.  She  felt  jest  as 
her  dad  did,  but  she  didn't  know  so  much.  She  couldn't 


THE     BAY     PATH.  209 

stan'  it  to  hear  me  called  hard  names,  and  while  I'm  round 
she  shan't  be  abused  for  it." 

"Miserable  hypocrite!"  exclaimed  the  minister,  scowl 
ing  and  holding  his  wounded  hand  in  its  fellow — "pretend 
ing  sorrow  for  the  savage  offence  of  your  child,  and  yet 
acting  as  her  boastful  justifier  and  champion !" 

"  Look  a'  here,"  said  Woodcock,  shaking  his  fist  in  the 
minister's  face,  "the  school's  out  and  the  ma'am's  drownded, 
and  now,  you  old  carri'n,  I  aint  goin  to  stan'  any  more  of 
your  sass.  You  jest  call  me  imp  and  hypocrite  and  son  of 
Belial  and  father  of  a  hell-cat  once  more,  and  I'll  pound  you 
till  you're  as  full  of  batters  as  an  old  brass  kittle.  It  don't 
do  me  any  good,  nor  my  young  one,  nor  you  neither,  to 
treat  you  decent.  There  aint  anything  that'll  bring  you  to 
your  milk  half  so  quick  as  a  good  double-and-twisted 
thrashin',  and  hang  me  if  I  don't  give  you  one  in  less'n  five 
minutes  if  you  don't  shet  your  head." 

"As  the  head  of  this  house,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  turning  to 
Holyoke,  while  a  sudden  pallor  overspread  his  face,  "I 
claim  your  protection  from  the  threats  and  hands  of  this 
ruifian." 

Woodcock  drew  back  his  hand  to  strike  him  as  he  utter 
ed  the  last  epithet,  but  it  was  caught  by  Holyoke,  who  in  a 
firm  tone  said  to  him,  "  Strike  no  man  in  my  house." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Woodcock,  "but  he  tempted 
me  too  strong." 

At  this  instant  Mary  Holyoke  came  up  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  and  undertook  in  a  soothing  tone  to  address 
him  and  dissuade  him  from  violence.  He  understood  her 
motive  at  once,  and  deprecatingly  held  out  his  hand  to  her, 
and  begged  her  to  desist.  As  she  still  persisted  in  her 
attempt  to  speak,  he  put  his  hands  to  his  ears  to  shut  out 
the  sound,  still  begging  her  not  to  interfere,  for  he  feared 
her  influence  over  him,  and  knew  it  would  be  exerted  on 
the  side  of  peace. 


210  THE     BAY     PATH. 

During  this  brief  diversion,  Mr.  Moxon  had  retreated, 
stepped  out  of  the  door,  and  was  rapidly  passing  away  from 
the  house.  The  moment  that  Woodcock  became  aware  of 
his  retreat,  he  wheeled,  and,  in  a  dozen  bounds,  which  were 
executed  as  strongly  and  as  nimbly  as  if  the  very  essence 
of  youth  were  dancing  in  his  veins,  he  had  stopped  the 
minister,  and  confronted  him.  The  latter  was  alanned,  but 
not  entirely  intimidated,  and,  seeing  Holyoke  at  the  door 
of  his  house,  and  one  or  two  others  starting  out  of  their 
cabins  and  walking  rapidly  towards  him,  he  endeavored  to 
pass  on ;  and  as  Woodcock  interfered,  exclaimed  in  deep 
vexation  and  anger,  "  Villain  !  Stand  aside !" 

The  words  had  hardly  passed  his  lips  when  Woodcock 
struck  him  a  staggering  blow  with  his  flat  hand  across  his 
mouth.  The  minister  shouted  "Murder!"  and  "Help!" 
and  it  was  strange  how  those  words — cries  of  simple  alarm 
and  distress  as  they  were — infuriated  Woodcock.  He  had 
patiently  withstood  injuries  and  insults,  but  the  outcry  of 
this  large  and  powerful  man  seemed  so  cowardly  to  him — 
so  mean  and  unmanly — that,  having  once  broken  over  the 
restraint  under  which  he  had  held  himself,  he  became  sud 
denly  maddened  into  fury,  and,  striking  him  a  second  blow, 
the  minister  fell  heavily  upon  the  ground,  the  blood  spurting 
from  his  nose  and  covering  his  face.  Woodcock  was 
instantly  kneeling  upon  him,  and  putting  his  face  down  to 
his  ear,  he  hoarsely  whispered,  "  Are  you  goin'  to  tech  that 
gal  of  mine  ?" 

"  Help !  let  me  up !"  gurgled  forth  the  minister. 

"  Are  you  goin'  to  tech  that  gal  of  mine  ?"  shouted 
Woodcock.  "  Say  yes  or  no,  or  I'll  break  your  head." 

"  Spare  me,"  feebly  whispered  the  minister,  "  and  I'll 
promise  as  you  wish." 

"  Now  you  remember,"  said  Woodcock,  shaking  his  fist 
menacingly  before  his  eyes,  "  that  if  you  make  any  fuss 
about  her  bitin'  you,  or  let  anybody  else,  or  bring  harm  on 


THE     BAY     PATH.  211 

her  any  way,  you'll  catch  that  thing  between  your  eyes  and 
under  your  ear  agin,  and  when  it  comes  you  won't  think  it's 
a  puff-ball  or  a  piece  of  cold  pudd'n'." 

This  scene  had  occupied  a  very  brief  space  of  time,  and 
at  first  somewhat  paralysed  those  who  were  its  witnesses, 
but  as  Woodcock  concluded  his  threat,  he  felt  himself  seized 
by  two  pairs  of  powerful  hands.  Their  owners,  however, 
had  made  a  very  poor  estimate  of  the  kind  of  individual 
with  whom  they  had  to  deal,  for  in  an  instant  he  was  on 
his  feet,  and  had  thrown  off  the  double  grasp  as  if  it  were 
the  playful  imposition  of  a  child. 

As  he  looked  around  him,  he  saw  the  villagers  running 
towards  him  from  every  quarter.  As  they  came  up  and 
gathered  in  a  crowd,  Henry  Smith  approached  the  minister, 
and  taking  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  away  towards  his 
house.  As  he  was  retiring  "Woodcock  shouted,  "  Now  re 
member  what  you've  said,  for  I  shall  be  round,"  and  then 
turned  and  walked,  unmolested  but  followed  by  the  crowd, 
to  Holyoke's  house.  He  seemed  to  understand  that  there 
was  not  a  man  of  them  who  dared  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
him,  and  he  walked  through  them  as  calmly  as  if  he  thought 
them  so  many  stumps  of  trees.  Taking  Holyoke  and  his 
wife  by  the  hand,  he  bade  them  farewell.  On  their  inquiry 
in  regard  to  what  he  meant,  and  where  he  was  going,  he 
shook  his  head,  and  simply  replied  that  they  wouldn't  see 
him  again. 

"  I've  got  to  leave  the  gal  with  you,"  he  continued,  shift 
ing  immediately  from  considerations  touching  himself  to 
the  subject  which  burdened  his  mind,  "  and  I  want  to  have 
you  do  as  well  as  you  can  by  her.  I've  got  to  go  now, 
any  way,  but  I  shall  know  how  she  gets  along,  and  p'raps 
shall  help  her  some." 

Holyoke  and  his  wife  said  but  little  to  him.  Both  felt 
unpleasantly  in  consequence  of  being  associated  with  the 
scene  of  violence  which  had  just  occurred,  at  the  sudden 


212  THE     BAY     PATH. 

cloud  it  had  drawn  over  their  happiness,  and  at  the  rupture 
of  the  peace,  and  the  wound  to  the  reputation  of  the 
settlement. 

At  last,  Woodcock  turned  to  the  child,  and  taking  a  seat, 
lifted  her  to  his  knee.  He  put  her  head  back,  and  looking 
in  her  face  a  moment,  bent  like  a  reed  over  her,  and  hiding 
his  rough  face  upon  her  neck,  gave  himself  up  to  a  passion 
of  grief  and  tenderness,  which  could  only  find  expression 
in  long  and  convulsive  suspirations.  The  villagers,  one 
after  another,  looked  into  the  door  and  window,  and  there 
was  no  smile  upon  their  faces  as  they  gave  their  places  to 
others. 

"  Don't  forget  me,  Mary,"  said  Woodcock,  as  he  raised 
his  head ;  "  don't  forget  me,  and  don't  b'lieve  any  on  'em 
when  they  tell  you  I  was  a  disgrace  to  you.  Good  bye !" 
And  straining  her  to  his  heart,  he  set  her  upon  his  own 
chair,  and  looked  fiercely  out  upon  the  gathering  crowd. 
Looking  beyond  the  crowd,  he  saw  the  constable,  John 
Searles,  approaching  the  house  rapidly,  and  he  knew  that 
he  must  act  immediately.  Passing  by  little  more  than  a 
single  leap  out  at  the  back  door,  he  ran  for  the  river,  and 
as  his  exit  was  witnessed  by  several  persons,  a  wild  outcry 
was  raised,  and  this  seemed  to  break  the  spell  that  rested 
on  the  crowd. 

They  rushed  after  him  with  a  wild  halloo,  and  succeeded 
in  reaching  the  river's  bank  in  time  to  see  him  push  rapidly 
out  upon  the  current  in  his  canoe.  The  constable  and 
half-a-dozen  others  went  out  in  pursuit,  but  soon  returned, 
well  knowing  his  superiority  at  the  oar,  and  the  danger 
there  would  be  in  attempting  his  capture  upon  the  water. 
Woodcock's  little  craft,  under  the  long  sweeping  strokes  of 
his  one  oar,  slipped  through  the  water  with  wonderful  velo 
city,  and  soon  looked  so  small  that,  with  its  apparent  life, 
it  seemed  more  like  a  deer  swimming  the  stream  than  the 
transport  of  a  man.  The  speck  gradually  curved  in  to  the 


THE     BAT     PATH.  213 

eastern  shore,  ran  in  among  the  bushes,  and  disappeared. 
The  crowd  then  turned  and  went  chattering  excitedly  back 
to  the  village. 

This  attack  upon  the  minister  produced  an  excitement 
which  was  long  in  subsiding.  The  fact  became  known  that 
Mary  Woodcock  had  bitten  the  minister's  hand,  and  all 
wondered  why  some  corrective  measures  were  not  instituted 
against  her.  Then,  little  by  little,  in  some  unaccountable 
way,  the  story  of  the  witchcraft  practised  upon  Mr.  Moxon's 
children  became  known,  till  at  last  it  was  notorious  in  every 
particular,  and  was  the  theme  of  a  world  of  idle  gossip. 

But  "Woodcock  did  not  return,  and  the  affairs  of  the 
plantation  soon  assumed  their  accustomed  phase.  Mr. 
Moxon  (after  a  month's  confinement)  preached  on  in  his 
usual  way;  Mr.  Pynchon  bought  beaver  and  distributed 
justice  with  his  characteristic  fairness  and  urbanity  ;  the 
planters  planted  and  builded ;  the  women  cooked,  mended, 
and  gossiped  ;  the  children  grew,  and  seed-time  and  harvest 
came  and  went  in  the  revolving  circle  of  the  years,  as  they 
have  done  since  the  birth  of  the  rainbow. 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

TEN  years !  A  segment  of  the  great  circle  of  eternity ! 
How  much  of  the  long  past  abides  in  so  brief  a  period ! 
Rivulets  of  influence  which  started,  perhaps,  with  the  sub 
sidence  of  the  flood,  and  have  been  joined  by  other  rivulets 
flowing  from  rifts  in  the  stratified  centuries,  or  have  been 
turned  aside  into  sluggish  circuits  through  long  ages,  have, 
in  ten  years,  deposited  their  store  of  blessings  or  curses, 
and,  at  the  same  moment,  sunk  in  the  sands.  Ten  years ! 
They  are  the  high  road  of  destiny,  crowded  with  shouting 
multitudes — multitudes  in  chariots — multitudes  in  armor — 
multitudes  chasing  golden  phantoms — eager-eyed  and  sleep 
less  multitudes — multitudes  in  rags  and  wretchedness — 
multitudes  trodden  upon  and  forgotten  in  death.  Ten 
years !  Ten  hours  of  joy — ten  ages  of  sorrow  1  Seed 
time  of  a  harvest  which  shall  not  be  fully  reaped  and  gar 
nered  till  the  stars,  now  throbbing  and  flashing  in  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  their  youth,  shall  flicker  and  fall. 
Ten  sweeps  of  the"  wing  of  that  great  angel  who,  earthward 
bound,  bears  the  proclamation  that  time  shall  be  no  more ! 
Ten  years !  They  transform  helpless  infants  into  bounding- 
children,  confer  manhood  on  boyhood,  make  matrons  of 
maidens,  stamp  wrinkles  upon  the  brow  of  beauty,  bring 
declining  years  to  senile  idiocy,  draw  millions  into  life,  bear 
millions  to  their  death,  stud  a  heaven  of  hope  with  stars  and 
blot  them  all  out,  and,  yet,  only  ten  years ! 

Ten  busy  years  swept  over  the  settlement  of  Agawam, 
and  wrought  their  changes  and  left  their  traces — wiping 
away  old  memories  with  new  experiences  ;  raising  up  one, 


THE     BAY     PATH.  215 

and  bowing  down  another ;  bearing  cups  of  joy  to  some, 
and  clothing  others  in  the  weeds  of  mourning ;  involving 
old  identities  in  new  associations  and  circumstances,  and 
preparing  the  field  for  a  fresh  and  more  interesting  survey. 
In  ten  years,  the  Bay  Path  had  been  changed  from  a  sim 
ple  bridle  path  to  a  worn  and  frequented  highway.  Packed 
horses  went  and  came  upon  it  through  all  the  summer  and 
autumn  ;  land  hunters,  in  merry  parties,  cantered  along  its 
shady  aisles  ;  emigrants  coming  from  and  returning  to  the 
Bay,  with  strange  freights  of  children  and  household  stuffs, 
and  droves  of  cows  and  goats,  crept  along  the  solitudes 
which  it  divided,  and  lighted  nightly  their  lonely  fires ;  Mr. 
Pynchon,  with  a  pleasant  retinue  of  companions,  which  not 
unfrequently  numbered  some  of  the  women  of  the  planta 
tion,  went  twice  a  year  to  attend  the  General  Court,  and 
the  artery  connecting  the  distant  settlement  with  the  body 
of  the  colony  throbbed  more  freely  with  the  life  and  influ 
ence  of  the  growing  heart. 

In  ten  years,  Mr.  Pynchon  had  greatly  changed.  Those 
years  had  brought  him  seriousness  with  increasing  care,  and 
determination  with  strengthening  convictions  of  duty.  The 
increase  in  the  population  of  the  settlement  by  immigration, 
brought  in  new  materials,  the  strongest  portion  of  which 
were  those  with  which  he  found  himself  inharmonious.  His 
heart  rebelled  against  influences  which  he  felt  were  begin 
ning  to  control  the  minds  around  htm.  The  old  creed,  which 
he  hoped  to  see  liberalized  and  simplified,  was  growing  still 
more  strait.  The  community  which  he  had  been  endeavor 
ing  to  mould  into  the  semblance  of  his  beautiful  Ideal  had 
become  warped,  so  that  he  hardly  recognised  it.  Driven  in 
upon  himself,  forced  in  his  declining  years  to  see  others 
outstripping  him  in  enterprise,  and  conscious  of  the  advance 
of  errors  which  he  had  from  motives  of  policy  sought  to 
neutralize  in  their  effect,  rather  than  oppose  in  themselves, 
he  busied  himself  with  his  Bible,  his  thoughts,  and  his  pen. 


216  THE     BAY     PATH. 

He  began  to  write — uncertainly  at  first,  reading  and  care 
fully  revising  as  he  wrote,  from  day  to  day  ;  and  then,  as 
he  became  more  interested  in  his  work,  he  devoted  himself 
with  entire  ardor  to  the  fulfilment  of  the  mission  he  had 
assigned  himself.  For  weeks  and  months  the  work  pro 
gressed.  During  the  day  he  wrote,  and  during  the  night 
he  studied  the  Scriptures  and  prayed  ;  and  when  at  last  the 
huge  mass  of  manuscript  lay  before  him,  he  found  that  he 
had  written  a  book  on  theology.  Little  did  he  dream,  as 
he  turned  over  its  leaves,  interlining  a  sentence  here,  and 
correcting  a  word  there,  that  his  own  fate  and  that  of  the 
plantation  were  involvad  in  its  pages ! 

The  changes  that  began  in  Mr.  Moxon,  when  he  first  be 
came  unsettled  in  his  religious  belief,  went  on  during  ten 
years  with  great  rapidity.  Even  his  occasional  fits  of 
strength  and  independence  became,  at  first,  widely  inter 
mittent,  and  then  ceased  altogether,  until  at  last  he  had 
degenerated  into  a  weak-minded,  melancholy,  fearful,  and 
humble  man.  He  moved  about  the  streets  quietly,  looking 
hurriedly  around  at  the  slightest  noise,  as  if  he  anticipated 
the  appearance  of  some  danger.  His  little  ones  had  become 
ten  years  older,  but  they  were  puny  and  stunted  children, 
and  still  the  sources  of  severe  trials.  They  still  had  their 
strange  fits ;  and  their  pitiable  case  had  been  commended 
to  God,  at  the  public  request  of  their  father,  by  all  the 
members  of  the  church.  They  were  talked  about,  and  at 
every  new  attack  from  which  they  suffered,  the  probabili 
ties  touching  the  authorship  of  their  torments  were  tho 
roughly  canvassed,  until  half  the  people  in  the  plantation 
had  been  mentioned  as  objects  of  suspicion. 

Mr.  Moxon's  mind,  shut  up  within  a  rigid  creed,  which, 
in  many  points,  chafed  and  benumbed  his  reason,  shrank 
from  the  walls  of  the  inclosure,  and  became  dry  and  dead. 
He  had  fed  on  no  liberal  ideas.  He  had  had  no  enlarge 
ment,  and  there,  hemmed  in  on  every  side,  and  afraid  to 


THE     BAY     PATH.  217 

burst  out,  he  had  clutched  at  effete  superstitions,  and  eaten 
them  in  silence  and  fear.  His  ministrations  upon  the  Sabbath 
had  become  uninstructive  and  uninteresting,  and  had  come 
to  be  regarded  with  lamentable  indifference  by  his  people. 

Ten  years  came  down  on  Holyoke's  rough  house,  and  the 
walls  became  blackened  by  the  sun  and  rain;  but  the 
ground  looked  so  pleasantly  around,  and  so  many  delightful 
associations  were  connected  with  it,  that  it  had  a  cheerful 
look  to  all.  On  Holyoke,  ten  years  had  wrought  a  great 
work.  Satisfied  in  his  affections,  blest  in  his  home,  happy 
in  his  Christian  experience,  and  in  fellowship  with  a  mind 
that  fostered  every  good  motive,  nourished  every  good 
resolve,  and  rewarded  with  the  sweetest  and  only  praise  he 
sought  every  difficult  achievement  and  noble  deed,  he  could 
not  choose  but  outgrow  even  his  own  expectations  of 
growth,  and  become,  in  his  own  modest  consciousness, 
more  noble  and  manly  than  he  had  once  supposed  a  man  in 
active  contact  with  the  world  could  be.  Everyone  looked 
upon  him  as  one  of  the  coming  men — one  who,  in  the 
future,  would  fill  an  important  place  in  the  plantation,  if 
not  in  the  colony.  Time  had  fed  him ;  experience  had 
given  him  strength.  The  love  that  burned  warmly  at  his 
heart,  and  the  angel  that  fed  the  flame,  kept  all  the  chords 
of  his  being  in  harmony ;  and  while,  from  this  fact,  he  was 
able  to  give  his  whole  soul  and  undivided  energies  to  what 
ever  work  he  undertook,  his  mental  and  spiritual  growth 
was,  from  the  same  fact,  symmetrical,  and  strong  as  a  natu 
ral  consequence  of  its  symmetry. 

Mary  Holyoke  hardly  looked  older  by  a  day  than  when 
she  was  married,  yet  she  had  known  many  cares  and  anxie 
ties,  for  three  beautiful  children  played  around  the  hearth 
stone.  Yet  Mary  Holyoke  had  changed  even  more  than 
her  husband.  With  advancing  years,  she  had  grown  more 
and  more  silent  and  diffident.  •  She  saw  the  growth  of  her 
husband,  and  in  the  gratification  which  it  gave  her,  and  the 

10 


218  THE     BAY     PATH. 

sweet  cares  imposed  upon  her  by  her  children,  she  became 
greatly  self-forgetful.  The  more  intimately  she  communed 
with  the  masculine  mind  with  which  she  was  associated, 
the  more  she  saw  its  depth,  its  power,  and  its  beauty ;  and 
the  greater  became  her  admiration  of  it.  She  did  not  mea 
sure  herself  by  it,  but  she  was  content  to  add  herself  to  it 
and  blend  herself  with  it.  She  experienced  no  sense  of 
humiliation  at  his  side,  but,  on  the  contrary,  emotions  of 
noble  and  ennobling  pride.  His  lore  was  the  sweetest 
blessing  the  earth  had  for  her ;  his  admiration  the  sweetest 
praise.  When  she  dressed,  it  was  for  him ;  when  she  la 
bored,  it  was  for  him ;  when  he  was  absent,  all  time  that 
was  not  devoted  to  him  and  those  he  loved,  was  a  burden  ; 
when  she  left  him,  it  was  to  fly  back,  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity,  to  him  and  the  home  in  which  he  had  made  her  so 
happy  and  himself  so  essential  to  her  happiness.  She  as 
serted  no  prominent  place  in  the  neighborhood  where  she 
might  have  had  commanding  influence,  because  she  was 
content  to  feed  the  springs  of  love  and  power  of  one  who 
could  fill  that  office  as  she  could  not.  In  this  beautiful 
devotion,  her  heart  had  known  no  cankering  envy,  no  bitter 
self-revilings,  no  vain  regrets.  Passion  had  left  no  trace 
upon  her  cheeks,  jealousy  and  pride  and  selfish  discontent 
had  ploughed  no  furrows  across  her  brow ;  and  even  the 
fresh  blush  of  maidenhood  had  only  given  place  to  a  ma- 
turer  grace — a  deeper,  broader,  and  softer  glory — which 
happy  maternity  may  alone  bestow.  She  had  been  content 
to  be  a  woman,  and  to  follow  the  promptings  of  her  own 
loving  heart ;  and  in  devoting  herself  to  her  husband  and 
children,  had  found  the  highest  happiness  she  had  ever 
known. 

The  difference  in  the  character  of  the  changes  that  re 
spectively  passed  over  Mary  Holyoke  and  her  sister,  Ann 
Smith,  was  as  great  as  that  of  the  respective  motives  by 
which  they  were  actuated.  Ann  was  married  to  a  man 


THE     BAY     PATH.  219 

with  whom  a  sense  of  duty  was  the  highest  motive  of  action. 
He  had  a  strong  will,  and  she  readily  took  the  coloring  he 
gave  her.  She  performed  the  duties  of  a  wife.  She  kept 
the  house,  and  clothed  the  children,  and  cooked  the  food, 
and  mended  her  husband's  garments,  because  as  the  wife 
of  Henry  Smith  it  came  within  the  line  of  her  duty,  and 
because  she  knew  that  Henry  Smith  would  regard  the  ser 
vice  in  that  light,  and  not  as  any  direct  manifestation  of 
love  to  him.  Thus  labor  became  a  burden,  and  sacrifice  a 
sorrow.  Thus  toil  lost  its  dignity  and  its  dignifying  influ 
ence.  Thus  discontent  became  a  tenant  of  her  heart  by  a 
perpetual  lease,  signed  and  sealed  by  her  husband.  Thus 
upon  her  face  the  bloom  of  girlhood  was  never  replaced 
by  any  grace  that  atoned  for  its  loss.  Thus  her  features 
assumed  permanently  the  hard  lines  which  were  the  appro 
priate  expression  of  her  prevalent  thoughts  and  emotions. 
Thus  the  corrugation  of  care  which  slept  behind  the  fair 
disguise  of  health,  or  became  exhausted  before  they 
reached  the  soft  plump  outlines  of  the  surface,  displayed 
themselves  in  permanent  wrinkles  so  soon  as  youth  and 
health  began  to  wane.  Thus  she  became  old  before  her 
time. 

The  character  of  Henry  Smith  had  grown  without  being 
enlarged — that  is,  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  that  were 
his  when  the  reader  first  made  his  acquaintance,  were  by 
the  experience  of  ten  years  simply  intensified  or  strength 
ened.  There  was  no  change  in  the  outlines  of  his  character. 
The  identities  of  his  being  had  all  been  preserved.  He 
had  adopted  a  system  of  opinions  on  almost  every  subject 
that  interested  him  in  youth,  and  as  manhood  came  on  he 
shut  off  the  influx  of  light  and  knowledge,  having  got 
enough  for  his  purposes.  All  his  opinions  and  sentiments 
were  clearly  arranged  in  his  own  mind,  and  as  he  could  and 
would  talk  of  nothing  beyond  his  range,  he  had  the  repu 
tation  of  being  clear-headed  and  strong-minded.  He  had 


220  THE     BAY    PATH. 

tracked  over  every  channel  of  his  soul  till  he  knew  it  as  he 
did  the  paths  around  the  plantation.  He  knew  just  what 
arguments  and  illustrations  he  had  on  hand,  as  well  as  he 
knew  what  trees  grew  hickory  nuts  and  chestnuts  upon  his 
farm.  In  his  own  consciousness  mind  was  cut  up  in  patches 
like  his  home-lot,  each  patch  being  productive  of  some  use 
ful  fruit,  and  while  the  whole  might  be  made  more  fruitful 
even  as  the  home-lot  might,  its  area,  like  that,  could  never 
be  increased  by  any  intrinsic  principle  of  growth.  He  was 
a  kind  of  cast-iron  man — a  perfectly  reliable  man — a  man 
whom  one  always  knew  where  to  find,  and  with  humble 
ostentation  he  gloried  in  the  character. 

"What  did  ten  years  do  for. Peter  Trimble  ?  The  first  of 
the  ten  found  him  a  small  lad.  He  had  not  growth  enough 
for  his  years ;  and  while  he  remained  small,  his  roguery 
seemed  to  be  so  concentrated  that  a  successful  attempt  to 
check  the  appropriate  expression  might  have  been  fatal. 
But,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  his  master,  whose  attention  was 
called  to  the  subject,  found  the  bottoms  of  the  legs  of  Peter's 
trowsers  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  his  knees.  He  saw 
that  the  boy  had  begun  to  grow  in  earnest,  and  then  recog 
nised  the  fact  that  as  the  length  of  his  limbs  had  increased 
his  roguishness  had  diminished. 

Year  after  year  this  process  went  on  until  he  arrived  at 
manhood  with  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  bashfulness  in  his 
manners,  a  tuft  of  white  beard  upon  his  chin  which  was  in 
visible  at  a  short  distance,  and  a  populous  settlement  of  the 
most  inflammable  and  intractable  pimples  upon  his  face. 
Peter's  legs  seemed  to  have  a  great  influence  in  his  conver 
sion  to  good  behavior.  The  utter  disparity  between  his 
legs  and  his  favorite  pursuits  first  became  apparent  to  him 
on  the  occasion  of  his  tripping  up  a  small  boy  as  the  boy  did 
not  happen  to  be  so  long  as  his  legs ;  and  after  that,  he  half 
unconsciously  adopted  his  legs  as  a  moral  standard,  and 
they  certainly  answered  an  excellent  purpose.  While  his 


THE     BAY     PATH.  221 

legs  thus  became  the  means  of  his  reformation,  his  pimples 
did  good  service  in  confirming  him  in  principles  of  sobriety. 
They  made  him  modest  and  retiring,  for  he  was  as  conscious 
of  each  particular  pimple  as  if  it  were  a  burning  mountain. 
Each  florid  protuberance  seemed  to  possess  an  independent 
power  of  blushing,  and  would  redden  as  it  felt  itself  the  sub 
ject  of  observation  until  his  face  appeared  like  a  chart,  re 
presenting  all  the  stages  of  active  inflammation. 

If  he  had  an  errand  at  any  house  in  the  settlement,  the 
last  thing  he  did  before  knocking  at  the  door  was  to  draw 
his  hands  down  over  his  face,  and,  as  the  surface  was  smooth 
or  rough,  he  was  bold  or  embarrassed  in  his  interview  with 
the  individuals  with  whom  his  business  lay.  Sometimes, 
when  his  face  felt  extremely  rough  and  uneven,  he  was 
obliged  to  look  down  upon  his  legs  for  reassurance  of  his 
manhood,  and  thus  those  organs  became  more  than  a  sim 
ple  moral  standard — became,  in  fact,  a  motive  force,  by 
which  the  spurs  were  put  to  resolution.  In  short,  Peter 
was  so  thoroughly  changed  that  one  who  had  not  seen  him 
in  ten  years,  Avould  not  have  recognised  him  at  all.  He  was 
a  new  creation.  He  was  as  if  he  had  been  literally  what  he 
had  been  often  denominated  figuratively — "a  hard  little 
nut'' — which  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  burst  open,  and  given 
birth  to  a  tall  chestnut  sapling,  either  absorbing  the  nut  or 
entirely  covering  it  from  sight. 

Mary  Woodcock  had  become  a  woman,  and  her  sharp 
black  eye  had  grown  large,  and,  softened  by  new  sympa- 
thie^,  very  beautiful.  It  was  a  most  legible  index  to  an  un 
easily  balanced,  passionate  nature.  It  seemed  sympathetic 
and  inviting,  and  yet  repulsive,  with  a  kind  of  reckless  dis 
dain.  To  many  susceptible  temperaments,  it  was  charged 
with  the  most  intense  fascination.  Her  eye  was  apparently 
all  that  any  one  saw  who  came  into  her  presence.  A  stranger 
would  have  remembered  nothing  but  her  eye.  Her  size, 
form,  face — all  would  have  been  forgotten  in  the  recollec- 


222  THE     BAT     PATH. 

tion  ol  that  wonderful  revelation  of  character,  that  subtle 
detecter  of  sj  mpathy,  that  inquisitor  of  motive,  that  insphe- 
ration  of  soul.  One  watched  it  involuntarily,  and  without 
being  conscious  that  that  was  the  only  object  observed,  as 
one  watches  a  whole  face  for  the  perusal  of  the  emotions 
which  express  themselves  in  its  changes.  It  had  its  sun 
shine,  its  clouds,  its  depths  of  thoughtful  coolness,  its  flashes 
of  passion,  its  dances  of  delight,  its  phases  of  humid  softness, 
its  half-repulsive  glarings  of  wild  merriment,  and  all  those 
appreciable  but  indescribable  intermediate  shadings  and  in- 
terminglings  of  emotion,  passion,  sentiment,  and  thought, 
which  found  birth  and  being  within  her  soul. 

Yet  she  had  few  sympathies  with  her  own  sex.  Her 
development  never  lost  the  bias  towards  masculineness 
given  to  it  in  its  initiative  stages.  Not  that  she  was  coarse, 
or  offensively  and  improperly  bold;  but  her  individuality 
had  the  faculty  and  characteristic  of  standing  alone.  She 
leaned  on  no  one,  and  had  no  wish  to  lean.  She  had  no 
confidant  but  her  benefactress — no  intimate  associate  of  her 
own  age — and  she  had  no  desire  for  one.  If  she  had  any 
desire  touching  man  or  woman,  it  was  that  she  might 
receive  his  or  her  confidence  and  trust,  and  to  stand  in  the 
relation  of  a  protector  or  supporter.  In  such  a  relation, 
she  could  dare  or  do  anything. 

Everybody  felt  that  Mary  Woodcock  was  attractive,  and 
yet  everybody  naturally  and  specially  subject  to  her 
attractions,  was  afraid  of  her.  There  was  a  scar  upon  the 
minister's  hand  which  every  one  in  the  plantation  had  seen. 
All  knew  or  believed,  that  there  was  incorporated  in  her 
nature  a  terrible  temper. 

Mr.  Moxon's  children  were  still  subject  to  their  strange 
fits,  and  there  was,  necessarily,  in  the  minds  of  the  credu 
lous — and  nearly  all  were  such — some  medium  or  agency 
by  which  the  Satanic  influence  was  communicated.  After 
everybody  in  the  plantation  against  whom  a  suspicion 


THE     BAY     PATH.  223 

could  by  possibility  be  indulged,  had  been  taken  up  by  the 
reckless  fingers  of  gossip,  turned  over,  and  dropped,  the 
ill-starred  orphan,  was  fixed  upon  as  the  one  who  most 
probably  was  in  the  blame.  The  scar  upon  Mr.  Moxon's 
hand  was  evidence  of  her  spite  against  him,  and  the  banish 
ment  and  disgrace  of  her  father,  in  consequence,  indirectly 
at  least,  of  his  reputed  agency  in  tormenting  the  children, 
were  deemed  motives  sufficient  to  induce  her  to  perpetuate 
the  work  he  had  commenced. 

These  things  were  not  talked  about  openly,  yet  every 
body  knew  of  them,  and  had  not  the  girl  been  under  the 
protection  of  Holyoke  and  his  wife,  she  would  have  been 
subjected  to  great  annoyances,  if  not  to  unrestrained  perse 
cution.  As  it  was,  she  became  aware  of  the  suspicions 
held,  and  influences  operative  against  her,  and  the  conscious 
ness — as  her  mood  might  be — wearied,  sickened,  soured,  or 
maddened  her. 

There  were  also  shadowy  reports  in  regard  to  certain 
interviews  that  Mary  had  been  known  to  have  with  men, 
or  forms,  who  came  and  went  in  the  night ;  and  a  very 
singular  looking  communication  had  been  found  addressed 
to  her.  This  had  been  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
finally  came  into  the  possession  of  Mr.  Moxon,  who  put  it 
under  lock  and  key,  with  the  impression  that  it  might  pos 
sibly  be  of  use  to  him.  These  facts  formed  the  basis  of  all 
kinds  of  stories,  which  did  not  require  ten  years  for  such 
growth  and  modification  as  to  place  them  beyond  the 
recognition  of  their  first  acquaintances. 

At  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  a  new  spirit  had  taken 
possession.  Mary  had  long  been  absent.  The  old  lady 
grew  more  and  more  quiet,  from  year  to  year,  and,  busy 
ing  herself  in  the  small  economies  of  the  establishment,  left 
the  labor  to  the  devoted  servants  of  the  household ;  while 
John,  the  boy  pupil  of  Mary,  came  early  into  man's  estate, 
and  assumed  naturally  and  boldly  its  responsibilities. 


224  THE     BAT     PATH. 

During  all  these  years,  what  changes  had  come  over  John 
Woodcock  ?  None  in  the  plantation  could  tell.  He  had 
not  once  been  heard  of  in  the  settlements  eastward  or  at 
the  south  ;  but,  though  none  had  seen  him,  there  were  very 
few  who  did  not  believe  that  he  was  alive.  There  was  one 
who  knew  him  to  be  alive,-  or,  rather,  who  had  no  doubt 
of  the  fact.  This  was  his  daughter.  She  had  received,  at 
the  hand  of  Commuk,  the  Indian,  a  score  of  communica 
tions,  rudely  traced  upon  strips  of  birch  bark,  consisting  of 
warnings,  bits  of  information  in  regard  to  her  position  in 
the  neighborhood,  scraps  of  advice,  &c.  These  were  nearly 
always  accompanied  by  presents,  larger  or  smaller,  in  silver 
money  or  wampum ;  and  though  the  communications  had 
no  signature,  and  the  gifts  no  nominal  donor,  she  had  no 
doubts  touching  their  common  origin.  The  Indian  mes 
senger  answere  1  no  questions,  and  made  no  explanations. 

Within  the  first  year  after  Woodcock's  withdrawal  from 
the  plantation,  the  discharge  of  a  gun  was  occasionally 
heard  in  the  forest,  when  all  belonging  to  the  plantation 
were  at  home.  An  Indian  was  seen,  on  one  occasion,  with 
a  musket  in  his  hand,  but  he  suddenly  fled  from  sight,  and 
as,  in  one  way  and  another,  the  Indians  generally  became 
possessed  of  fire-arms,  the  matter  was  forgotten. 

The  -reader  has  been  made  acquainted  with  the  changes 
which  ten  years  had  wrought  upon  his  acquaintances  in  the 
plantation  of  Agawam.  As  he  recognises,  one  after  another, 
through  their  faded  lineaments  or  modified  characteristics, 
those  in  whom  he  has  acquired  an  interest,  he  is  ready  to 
join  their  hands  in  sympathy,  and  pass  forward  with  them 
to  the  resolution  of  the  problem  of  their  lives,  and,  perhaps, 
make  a  few  new  acquaintances  with  them  on  the  way. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

IT  was  a  bright  autumn  day  of  the  year  to  which  the 
reader  was  advanced  by  the  last  chapter,  when  the  Agawam 
training  band,  under  the  command  of  Captain  Holyoke, 
paraded  upon  the  village  green.  The  band  was  composed 
of  all  the  men  in  the  plantation  capable  of  bearing  arms, 
including  even  boys  of  sixteen  years,  and  old  men  with  the 
first  infirmities  of  age  upon  them.  The  members  were  not 
dressed  with  any  great  degree  of  uniformity,  nor  were  their 
arms  of  equal  length  and  calibre,  but  they  formed  a  resolute 
and  hardy  looking  corps — well  fitted  to  act  in  such  warfare 
as  they  were  liable  to  be  engaged  in. 

One  would  naturally  suppose  that  the  members  of  a  body 
so  indifferently  appointed  as  this  would  have  little  place  for 
personal  vanity  or  military  pride,  but,  when  it  is  remem 
bered  that  this  company  and  its  performances  were  the 
only  embodiment  and  expression  of  the  military  spirit  pos 
sible  at  the  time,  it  can  be  imagined  that  many  a  young 
man  studied  personal  effect,  and  thought  of  bright  eyes  at 
favorite  windows,  with  no  little  interest. 

During  the  half  day  devoted  to  training,  a  compliment 
was  usually  paid  to  the  house  of  the  captain  by  such  officer 
as  might  be  temporarily  in  command,  and  even  Holyoke 
happened  occasionally  to  put  his  little  army  through  their 
evolutions  in  front  of  his  own  house.  On  the  day  alluded 
to,  the  company  were  marching  steadily  along  the  street, 
to  the  time  of  the  old  drum  used  to  call  the  people  to  Sab 
bath  worship,  when  one  of  the  members  began  to  betray  a 
remarkable  degree  of  agitation. 

10* 


226  THE     BAY     PATH. 

As  they  approached  the  house  of  Holyoke,  he  frequently 
looked  down  upon  his  legs,  and,  at  the  conclusion  of  each 
survey,  lifted  his  hand  to  his  face  and  brought  it,  spread 
broadly,  down  to  his  chin,  at  which  point  the  fingers  came 
in  and  reported  what  they  had  found  to  the  thumb.  One 
might  go  the  world  over,  and  not  find  so  uneasy  a  specimen 
of  a  soldier  as  he.  As  he  came  nearer,  and  still  nearer,  to 
the  house,  he  began  to  lift  sudden  stolen  glances  to  the 
window,  to  ascertain  whether  the  subject  of  his  thoughts 
was  there ;  and,  as  he  caught  sight  of  a  pair  of  black  eyes, 
flashing  among  a  set  of  smiling  and  spirited  features,  the 
pimples  upon  his  face  became  enraged,  one  after  another, 
and  his  feet  were  confounded  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was 
half  afraid  that  he  could  never  get  by  the  house  without 
being  ordered  from  the  ranks.  He  had  not  a  doubt  that 
Mary  Woodcock  saw  every  motion.  He  could  actually  feel 
her  looking  at  him.  The  influence  of  her  eyes  was  such 
that  he  had  nervous  twitches  in  his  ankles,  that  brought 
his  feet  to  the  ground  in  uneven  steps.  He  felt  it  up  and 
down  the  muscles  of  his  limbs ;  it  heated  his  face,  and  con 
fused  his  head.  Yet  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
window ;  and,  as  the  company  came  to  a  halt,  and  displayed 
their  skill  in  exercise,  his  eyes  and  mind  seemed  to  be  about 
equally  divided  between  the  window  and  the  commanding 
officer. 

Peter  Trimble  was  not  in  love  with  Mary  Woodcock. 
That  was  a  passion  he  was  not  equal  to.  He  could  love  (in 
his  small  way)  any  woman  at  sight,  provided  the  probabili 
ties  were  in  favor  of  his  securing  her  hand.  A  compliment, 
real  or  fictitious,  from  a  girl,  was  enough  to  change  the 
current  of  his  affections  without  a  ruffle  on  the  surface.  He 
knew  Mary  Woodcock's  origin,  the  nature  of  the  prejudices 
that  popularly  prevailed  against  her,  and  her  own  conscious 
ness  that  the  majority  of  the  young  men  shunned  her ;  and 
the  remnants  of  his  old  cunning  had  turned  his  mind 


THE     BAY     PATH.  227 

towards  her,  as  one  whom,  perhaps,  he  might  obtain  for  a 
wife. 

He  was,  therefore,  not  a  little  annoyed  to  find,  as  he 
came  nearer  to  the  house,  that  her  attention  was  perfectly 
absorbed  by  some  other  member  of  the  corps,  and  that  she 
only  turned  to  him  once,  and  then  with  a  smile  that  greatly 
resembled  derision.  When  the  company  was  dismissed, 
Peter  had  become  quite  unhappy — not  from  unrequited 
affection,  but  in  consequence  of  a  vague  consciousness  that 
he  had  made  a  miscalculation.  He  was  unable  fully  to  satisfy 
himself,  even  after  having  walked  by  the  house  a  dozen 
times  while  the  inmates  were  asleep  that  night. 

The  man  who  had  the  fortune  to  attract  the  attention  of 
Mary  Woodcock,  and  who  became  the  unconscious  cause 
of  Peter's  uneasiness,  was  one  who  had  never  been  a  favor 
ite  with  the  women  of  the  settlement.  The  fact  was  not 
due,  however,  to  any  vice  of  his  nature  or  habit,  to  any  low 
associations,  or  to  any  ugliness  of  person.  He  was  unpopular, 
because  he  was  not  manlike  in  his  constitution.  He  was  a 
short,  slenderly  built  man,  with  a  feminine  face,  a  mild  blue 
eye,  full  of  amiable  sweetness,  a  soft  and  pleasant  voice, 
and  a  manner  that  was  all  meekness  and  modesty.  He  was, 
in  strict  terms  and  in  no  unworthy  or  offensive  sense,  an 
effeminate  man,  and  to  his  nature  Mary  had  felt  herself 
more  and  more  attracted,  as  the  years  had  brought  her  to 
maturity.  From  the  stronger  masculine  riatures  she  had 
felt  herself  repulsed  by  a  force  that  she  had  neither  the 
wish  nor  the  power  to  resist. 

She  had  grown  up  self-reliant,  courageous,  more  or  less 
conversant  with  hardship  and  danger,  lonely  in  her  thoughts, 
and  passionate  under  restraint ;  and  the  idea  of  becoming 
the  wife  of  a  man  to  whom  she  would  be  obliged,  or  would 
feel  it  a  pleasure,  to  bend  her  will,  was  one  which  it  was 
not  possible  for  her  to  entertain.  She  wished  to  choose, 
and  it  was  natural  for  her — the  masculine  woman — to 


228  THE     BAY     PATH. 

choose  the  feminine  man.  And  as  she  saw  him  marching 
by  with  the  training  band,  and  watched  him  as  he  went 
through  the  exercises  of  the  occasion,  every  step  and 
motion  seemed  to  her  charged  with  unutterable  grace. 

"  Dear  little  fellow !"  exclaimed  Mary,  with  a  sigh,  as 
she  at  last  turned  away  from  the  window  ;  and  she  thought 
of  him  tenderly  all  the  day,  and  dreamed  of  him  at  night, 
and  wondered  the  next  morning  whether  circumstances 
would  ever  favor  her  with  the  means  to  convey  to  his  mind 
the  knowledge  that  she  admired  him.  and  could  easily  love 
him. 

But  days  and  weeks  passed  away  before  the  opportunity 
for  an  interview  with  the  object  of  her  interest  could,  with 
out  a  sacrifice  of  the  proprieties  of  her  sex  and  position,  be 
obtained. 

For  a  week  after  training  day,  Peter  was  in  despair.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  accidentally  met  Mary  in  the  street, 
-and,  as  she  gave  him  an  unusually  kind  smile  and  bow,  he 
hastened  home  immediately,  and,  going  to  his  little  room, 
tried,  with  the  aid  of  a  small  mirror,  to  get  a  side  look  at 
his  legs.  He  walked  forth  and  back  across  his  apartment, 
but,  with  his  facilities,  he  could  observe  only  a  small  sur 
face  at  a  time,  and  relinquished  his  mirror  for  an  unreflected 
survey  of  his  nether  proportions — a  feat  which  he  accom 
plished  by  stretching  his  head  out  from  his  stooping 
shoulder,  giving  an  earnest  squint  inwards,  and  arching  his 
eyebrows,  and  all  the  wrinkles  above  them,  in  a  most 
preposterous  manner.  He  saw  nothing  unusual,  unless, 
perhaps,  a  slight  increase  of  size  in  his  locomotive  organs. 
That,  of  course,  was  favorable.  Then  he  looked  at  his  face. 
It  was  certainly  not  a  very  handsome  face,  and  it  was  not 
by  any  means  smooth  in  its  details;  but,  take  it  at  a  dis 
tance — say  about  as  far  as  Mary  stood  from  him  when  she 
met  him — und  the  expression  could  be  called  good.  He 
tried  his  looking-glass  across  the  room,  but,  as  it  would 


THE     BAT     PATH.  229 

only  take  in  part  of  his  face  at  that  distance,  he  had  to 
come  back  with  it  to  close  quarters. 

This  little  circumstance  fed  Peter  for  several  days  with  a 
satisfaction  that  began  to  grow  into  pride.  Everybody  said 
that  Mary  was  a  smart  girl,  and  under  other  circumstances, 
and  with  a  little  less  spirit,  etc.,  would  make  any  man  a 
good  wife.  He  was  enough  for  her.  As  for  her  temper, 
he  would  let  her  know  she  couldn't  play  off  any  of  her 
tantrums  on  him ;  and  when  the  young  men  in  the  planta 
tion  really  saw  what  a  splendid-looking  wife  he  possessed, 
and  how  pleasant  and  respectful  she  was  to  him,  and,  more 
than  all.  when  old  Woodcock's  land  should  come  into  his 
hands,  then  they  would  say,  "  Hang  that  Peter  Trimble ! — 
what  a  lucky  dog  he  is !" 

After  he  had  made  considerable  progress  in  Mary's  affec 
tions  in  this  manner,  without  her  knowledge  or  consent,  he 
met  her  in  his  frequent  walks  again.  Her  demeanor  on 
this  occasion  was  exceedingly  gracious,  and  Peter  was  more 
delighted  than  ever,  and  wondered  how  large  a  slice  of 
Woodcock's  land,  which  was  every  year  increasing  in  value, 
it  would  take  to  purchase  a  watch  as  valuable  as  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon's.  If  he  had  a  watch  he  should  be  a  gentleman,  and 
his  wife  would  be  Mrs.  Trimble ;  and  he  could  sit  in  his 
own  house,  and  drawing  his  time-piece  slowly  from  the  fob 
say,  "Isn't  it  about  time  we  were  having  supper,  Mrs. 
Trimble  ?"  or,  "  Isn't  it  about  time  for  the  lecture  to  com 
mence,  Mrs.  Trimble  ?"  or,  "  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late  ;" 
or,  calling  at  a  neighbor's  house  in  the  evening,  he  would 
take  the  watch  modestly  out  and  say,  in  an  off-hand,  free- 
and-easy  way,  "  Come,  Mrs.  Trimble,  it's  time  honest  folks 
was  at  home  and  a-bed."  Yes — he  was  not  fully  certain, 
but — he  rather  thought  he  should  have  the  watch. 

Very  few  individuals  get  in  love  (or  think  they  do,  which 
is  the  same  thing  to  them  for  th'e  time),  and  are  really  very 
much  pleased  with  the  object  of  their  interest,  who  have 


230  THE     BAY     PATH. 

not  a  strong  desire  to  give  their  confidence  to  some  one  who 
will  take  it  good-naturedly — some  one  who  will  patiently 
hear  of  their  successes,  and  listen  to  the  praises  of  the  being 
beloved.  Peter  felt  this  want  very  much.  In  his  own 
mind  he  had  made  such  advances  in  Mary's  affections  that, 
as  he  did  not  dare  to  call  upon  her  for  re-assurance,  he 
found  it  necessary  to  brace  himself  against  the  assent  and 
encouragement  of  some  one  else.  He  cast  about  among  his 
acquaintances  for  the  proper  recipient  of  his  precious  secrets. 
He  found  himself  afraid  to  speak  of  the  matter  to  any 
acquaintances  of  his  own  age,  ashamed  to  speak  of  it  to 
any  who  were  younger,  and  disinclined  to  allude  to  the  sub 
ject  with  those  who  were  his  seniors. 

There  was  but  one  face  that  came  up  to  his  imagination 
with  a  kind  and  sympathetic  aspect,  and  that  belonged  to  a 
young  man  with  whom  he  had  no  intimacy.  He  resolved, 
however,  to  make  his  acquaintance,  and  see  what  he  could 
do  with  him,  and  circumstances  soon  threw  him  conveniently 
in  his  way.  Before  the  two  parted  Peter  had  invited  his 
new  friend  to  his  room,  informing  him  that  there  were  cer 
tain  things  he  wished  to  say  to  him,  that  he  had  profound 
secrets  to  impart,  and  important  advice  as  well  as  aid  to 
solicit. 

On  the  following  evening,  accordingly,  the  confidant  elect 
made  his  appearance  at  the  house  where  Peter  had  his 
home,  and  walking  into  the  kitchen  found  that  individual 
bent  nearly  double  upon  a  low  bench  before  the  fire,  eating 
samp  and  milk. 

Peter  had  about  exhausted  his  supply  at  the  moment  of 
the  arrival,  and  as  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  receive 
calls  in  the  presence  of  the  family,  he  began  to  blush  with 
excessive  embarrassment.  His  first  movement  was,  almost 
unconsciously,  to  throw  the  remnant  of  his  supper  into  the 
fire.  Then  rising  and  uncoiling  himself,  he  set  his  porrin 
ger  upon  a  side-table,  and  doubling  up  his  pewter  spoon 


THE     BAT     PATH.  281 

under  the  impress  on  that  he  was  closing  the  blade  of  his 
jack-knife,  put  it  into  his  pocket.  The  new  comer  smiled 
amiably  upon  all,  told  Peter  that  he  had  come  according  to 
promise,  and,  sitting  down,  extended  his  hand  and  a  look 
of  interest  to  a  little  child  who  stood  timidly  at  a  distance. 
The  little  one  did  not  wait  for  a  second  invitation,  but  went 
directly  to  -the  stranger  and  was  lifted  to  his  knee.  The 
child's  instinct  discovered  a  sympathetic  nature,  and  not 
only  trusted  it  at  once,  but  conceived  an  affection  for  it  at 
the  same  moment.  Soon  the  other  and  older  children 
gathered  around  him  as  an  attractive  centre,  and  without 
any  apparent  effort  on  his  part  he  became  in  a  few  minutes 
the  monopolist  of  domestic  influence  and  interest. 

At  length,  Peter  had  gained  the  extravagant  concession 
of  a  tallow  candle  from  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and, 
lighting  it  at  a  coal,  with  the  assistance  of  a  very  uncertain 
pair  of  lips,  he  told  his  friend,  with  a  nervous  wink,  that  he 
was  "  ready  to  cut  his  hair." 

"  Ready  to  cut  my  hair  !"  exclaimed  the  man. 

"  Yes !  Walk  right  along  up  stairs,"  said  Peter,  pushing 
out  of  sight  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  visitor  looked  around  upon  the  family  with  a  curious 
smile,  and  in  a  quiet  way  saying,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  knoAV 
what  he  means,"  followed  with  such  speed  as  half-a-dozen 
children  clinging  to  his  legs  would  permit.  When  both  had 
landed  in  Peter's  room,  Peter  sat  down  on  one  end  of  his 
chest,  and  placing  his  candle  on  the  other,  put  his  face  be 
tween  his  hands,  and  his  hands  between  his  knees,  and  went 
suddenly  off  into  a  violent  snicker  which  commenced  with 
a  snort  and  ended  in  a  cough.  As  soon  as  he  could  speak, 
he  bade  his  visitor  be  seated  on  a  bench,  and  asked  him 
"  why  he  didn't  take." 

"  Take  ?  take  what  ?"  inquired  the  man,  slightly  nettled 
at  the  idea  of  being  expected  to  play  a  game  of  deception. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Peter,  "  I'm  great  on  cutting  hair. 


232  THE     BAY     PATH. 

I  don't  s'pose  when  you  come  right  down  to  the  real  thing, 
there's  anybody  in  the  settlement  can  shingle  like  me.  I 
do  it  for  pretty  much  all  of  'em.  I  reckon  you  might  stuff 
a  bed  with  the  hair  I've  cut  off  in  the  last  five  years." 

"  I  hope  you  get  well  paid  for  it,"  remarked  his  compa 
nion,  not  knowing  at  the  moment  what  else  to  say. 

"  Land  ahead !"  said  Peter,  using  a  favorite  exclama 
tory  phrase,  "  you  don't  s'pose  I  charge  'em  anything,  do 
you  ?  I  do  it  'cause  I  like  it.  Between  you  and  I,  it  ain't 
everybody  that  can  do  it.  You  see,  a  great  many  that  cut 
hair  pull  like  time,  and  I've  come  across  several, — now  very 
likely  you  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  a  fact — I  wouldn't  lie  to 
you,  for  I  think  too  much  of  my  word,  'pon  my  honor  I  do, 
— several  who  had  slits  in  their  ears,  made  by  these  botches 
— I  don't  think  it's  any  too  bad  to  call  'em  botches,  that's  a 
fact.  Well,  when  a  man  gets  his  hair  pulled  every  time  the 
shears  comes  down — it's  done  by  slipping  by,  you  know — 
cutting  off  some,  and  taking  along  the  rest — and  gets  a  slit 
or  two  in  his  ears,  he  looks  out,  and  doesn't  get  catched  in 
the  trap  again.  But  I  suit  'em,  you  see.  Land  ahead  !  I 
guess  I  do  suit  'em ;  I  don't  s'pose  if  I  should  live  here  till  I 
was  as  old  as  the  hills,  but  what  I  should  have  all  the  hair 
to  cut.  Do  you  knoAV  how  to  shingle  ?" 

"I  hav'n't  the  slightest  idea  how  it  is  done,''  replied  the 
man,  with  a  smile  playing  about  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  that 
showed  that  he  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  interview. 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  deal  of  a  knack,  ain't  it  ?  The  fact  is 
there  ain't  but  a  few  that's  got  it  in  'em.  Just  look  at  my 
hair.'' 

The  concluding  direction  was  accompanied  with  an  exhi 
bition  of  his  head,  in  every  aspect  possible  with  a  head  still 
fastened  to  a  pair  of  shoulders. 

"  That,''  continued  Peter,  "  is  what  I  do  in  the  night.  I 
come  up  here,  and  nobody  to  say  anything  to,  and  so  I  sit 
down  on  the  old  chest,  and  cut  my  hair  in  the  dark.  I  keep 


THE     BAY     PATH.  233 

it  jest  about  so  all  the  time.  Do  you  see  how  smooth  'tis 
behind  ?  Don't  you  call  that  pretty  even  trimming  1  Don't 
it  look  as  if  it  was  shaved,  now,  r'ally  ?" 

After  securing  a  general  assent  to  his  separate  questions, 
Peter  took  his  candle,  and  set  it  upon  the  floor.  Then, 
lifting  the  lid  of  his  chest,  he  took  out  from  the  till  his 
shears  and  comb,  and,  holding  them  up  to  the  amused 
visitor,  exclaimed,  "  There's  the  tools !  and  if  they  ain't  the 
tools,  land  ahead  !  there  never  was  any  tools.  I  s'pose,  if 
the  truth  was  known,  there's  better  stuff  in  them  shears  " 
(giving  them  a  click)  "  than  there  is  in  any  razor  this  side 
of  the  Bay.  I  call  'em  a  little  too  hard — jest  a  leetle  grain 
— but  that's  a  good  fault  in  shears." 

The  visitor  had  begun  to  tire  of  the  subject,  interesting 
as  Peter  had  the  power  to  make  it ;  and,  shifting  uneasily 
on  his  seat,  he  interrupted  that  enthusiastic  amateur  barber 
in  his  attempt  to  explain  the  trick  of  the  shingling  process, 
by  saying,  "  I  believe  there  were  some  things  you  wished 
to  say  to  me." 

"  Land  ahead !"  exclaimed  Peter,  dropping  his  shears 
\ipon  the  floor,  "  I  come  pretty  near  forgetting  that. .  What 
if  I  had  forgot  that,  now  ?  By  the  way,  don't  you  want 
your  hair  cut  ?  I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  get  along, 
unless  you  do  have  it  jest  shingled  a  little  ?" 

The  visitor  could  see  no  direct  connexion  between  his 
hair  and  Peter's  secrets,  and  declined  the  operation. 

"  You  see,"  said  Peter,  "  the  folks  down  stairs  will  won 
der  what  in  time  made  you  come  here ;  and  if  I  don't  cut 
your  hair,  or  make  believe  cut  it,  perhaps  you  won't  believe 
it,  but  the  way  they'll  pump  me  will  be  awful.  I  guess  I 
can  fix  it,"  pursued  the  ingenious  fellow,  "  by  coming  a 
small  rig.  I'll  keep  the  shears  a-going  while  we  get  along 
with  the  business,  and  they'll  hear  'em  down  stairs,  and 
think  it's  all  right." 

Thus  deciding,  and  thus  delivering  himself,  Peter  lifted 


234  THE     BAY     PATH. 

the  shears  from  the  floor,  and,  performing  half-a-dozen  clips 
upon  an  imaginary  head  before  him,  reached  forward,  and 
grasping  the  hand  of  his  companion,  said,  "  You  sit  there, 
and  I  sit  here.  You  are  Hugh  Parsons,  and  I  am  Peter 
Trimble.  We  understand  ourselves,  and  what  we  say  is 
between  us." 

"  Just  as  you  say,"  responded  Hugh,  with  a  slight  strug 
gle  to  drown  in  a  smile  a  little  irritation  which  sought  the 
surface;  for  the  study  of  Peter,  while  it  had  been  an  amusing 
one,  showed  him  that  there  was  not  an  element  in  his  cha 
racter  with  which  his  own  could  harmonize. 

Peter  gave  a  long  tune  upon  the  shears,  in  order  to  hold 
the  people  in  the  kitchen  to  the  delusion  to  which,  in  imagi 
nation,  he  had  committed  them ;  then  executed  a  subdued 
whistle,  and,  crossing  his  hands,  and  leaning  forward  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  he  said  to  Hugh,  in  the  slyest  pos 
sible  manner,  "  Between  you  and  I,  I  think  of  taking  a 
pullet." 

"Robbing  a  henroost,  in  other  words?"  said  Hugh  in 
terrogatively,  with  a  quizzical  expression  on  his  handsome 
face. 

"  Land  ahead  !"  exclaimed  Peter,  "  don't  you  know  what 
taking  a  pullet  is  ?" 

"  I  can  guess,  perhaps." 

"Well,  I  thought  you  knew,  and  now  I  want  to  ask  you 
— it's  all  between  us,  you  know" — furious  clips  at  the  phan 
tom  head  of  hair,  "  what  you  think  a  pullet  looks  at  most, 
when  she's  picking  out  a  man  ?" 

"  His  corns  ?" 

"  Come  now !  honest !"  exclaimed  Peter,  beginning  to 
see  that  Hugh  was  making  fun  of  him! 

"  Well,  if  pullets  are  girls,"  said  Hugh,  quietly,  "  I  pre 
sume  they  look  at  the  man  they  like  the  best." 

"  That  isn't  what  I  mean,"  said  Peter,  "  and  it  wouldn't 
be  true  if  it  was.  I've  seen  it  tried.  I  remember  one 


THE     BAT     PATH.  235 

training  day, — but " — and  Peter  suddenly  recollected  him 
self,  "  but  it  was  a  good  many  years  ago — before  you  come 
here,  I  guess.  What  I  want  to  find  out  is  whether  I'm 
right  on  a  man's  p'ints." 

"  What  do  you  think  they  are  ?"  said  Hugh,  becoming 
the  questioner. 

"  Well,"  responded  Peter,  squinting  at  the  rafters,  and 
slashing  his  shears  high  into  the  air,  "  if  you  was  walking 
out  some  day,  and  there  should  come  along  a  darn  pretty, 
black-eyed  girl,  and  should  look  you  square  in  the  face,  and 
smile  jest  as  sweet  as  she  could,  and  say  *  how  do  you  do  ?' 
and  she  never  had  done  this  before,  and  you  should  go 
home  and  think  it  all  over,  and  couldn't  find  anything  about 
you  to  make  her  change  her  mind,  but  a  fair  pair  of  legs 
and  a  face  that  wasn't  very  bad  (and  Peter  drew  his  hand 
gently  over  his  own),  wouldn't  you  say  that  legs  and  face 
was  the  word  ?" 

"  I  should  think  they  might  be,"  replied  Hugh,  with  utter 
good-nature. 

"  Think  ?  Don't  you  know  it  ?"  cried  Peter,  becoming 
vehement  so  suddenly  as  to  surprise  himself;  and  then, 
with  the  idea  that  his  violence  might  compromise  his  inter 
ests,  he  apologetically  added,  "  but  perhaps  you  never 
thought  of  these  things  so  "much  as  I  have.  I've  thought  of 
'em  any  quantity.  I  don't  s'pose  you'd  believe  me,  if  I 
should  begin  to  tell  you  half  of  the  time  I  spend  in  thinking 
of  them — I  don't,  that's  a  fact,  now."  And  Peter  closed 
with  an  expression  of  entire  placability,  which  said  plainer 
than  words  could  say,  that  he  should  not  blame  Hugh  in 
the  least  were  he  to  be  incredulous,  in  case  the  real  facts 
should  be  divulged. 

"  We'll  call  it  so,  at  least,"  said  Hugh,  very  positively. 
"  Now  go  on." 

"Let's  see — where  was  I?"  said  Peter,  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  snapping  his  shears.  "  Oh,  yes !  I  remember 


236  THE     BAY     PATH. 

now.  Well,  s'pose  a  little  while  after  that  you  should  meet 
the  same  girl  again,  and  as  quick  as  you  see  her  coming 
you  should  straighten  up,  and  brush  up  your  hair,  and  go 
by  her  something  like  this"  (and  Peter  strode  across  his 
apartment  with  a  dashing  swing  and  a  complacent  smirk), 
"  and  she  should  look  sweeter  than  ever,  and  kind  o'  look 
at  you  all  over,  as  if  she  felt  tickled  and  wanted  to  say 
something  and  darsn't,  and  you  knew,  jest  as  well  as  you 
wanted  to  know,  that  your  legs  and  face  was  the  best  part 
of  you,  what  should  you  think  then?"  And  Peter  snapped 
his  shears  triumphantly,  and  reiterated  his  question — "  Say ! 
what  should  you  think  then  ?" 

"  Well,  what  did  you  think  ?"  inquired  Hugh,  smiling. 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  me,  did  I  ?"  said  Peter,  with  a  flat 
tered  and  half  fatuous  look  of  cunning. 

"  No,  but  it  was  you,  wasn't  it,  Peter  ?" 

"  Now  what  made  you  think  so  ?"  inquired  Peter,  very 
much  pleased  ;  "  what  made  you  think  it  was  me  ?  What 
did  you  guess  by  ?  Perhaps,  if  you'll  tell  me,  I'll  tell  you 
whether  you  was  right." 

"  Oh !  I  knew ;  I'm  not  going  to  flatter  you,;  you're 
proud  enough  now." 

"  Hugh  Parsons,  give  us  your  hand,"  exclaimed  Peter, 
grasping  the  man's  slender  and  shrinking  palm,  and  shaking 
it  violently.  "  You're  the  best  feller  I  eve,r  see  in  my  life. 
It's  true  now — you  needn't  say  you  'ain't.,  I  know  all  the 
rest  of 'em.  They  ain't  anything.  Land  ahead  !  they  think 
they  are,  but  I've  shingled  their  hair  this  five  years,  and  I 
never  found  it  out,  and  perhaps  you  don't  think  so,  but  if  / 
hav'n't  found  it  out,  there  ain't  many  fellers  that  would." 

"  Now  tell  me  who  the  girl  was,"  said  Hugh,  as  soon  as 
his  aching  hand  was  released,  and  carefully  wiped  upon  his 
handkerchief. 

"  Between  you  and  I,"  replied  Peter,  "  it's  the  pullet  that 
I  think  of  taking." 


THE     BAT     PATH.  237 

"Have  you  said  anything  to  her  about  it'i"  inquired 
Hugh. 

"  Land  ahead !  I  hav'n't  got  to  that  yet ;  and  between 
you  and  I  that's  what  I  want  to  see  you  for.  Now  you  see 
you've  got  a  smooth  tongue,  and  nobody  is  afraid  of  you  ; 
and  you  can  do  what  I  want  better  than  anybody  else — 
now  you  needn't  say  you  can't,  for  I  know  you  can — and 
the  iron  being  hot  on  both  sides,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
strike." 

"  But  perhaps  I  don't  know  the  girl,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Yes,  you  do.  I  guess  she  kind  o'  likes  you,  as  a  friend, 
you  know.  I  don't  s'pose  you're  jest  sech  a  feller  as  she'd 
want  for  a  husband ;  not  that  there's  any  good  reason  for 
it,  but  she's  a  large  girl,  and  women  have  queer  ideas  about 
such  things,  you  know,"  said  Peter,  patronizingly. 

Hugh's  eye  flashed  with  a  sudden  contempt,  but  he  was 
one  who  never  quarrelled,  and  so,  letting  the  insult  pass,  he 
said,  somewhat  impatiently,  "  Come !  give  us  her  name." 

"  Well,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  responded  Peter.  "  You're 
the  greatest  feller  to  go  off  half  cocked  that  ever  I  see  in  all 
my  life." 

"  But  it's  almost  bed-time,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Land  ahead  !  so  'tis,"  said  Peter.  "  We  must  be  get 
ting  along — that's  a  fact.  Now,  Hugh,  you're  first  rate  at 
guessing,  and  before  I  tell  you,  I  want  you  should  tell  me 
what  M.  W.  stands  for  ?» 

"  Mehitabel  Warriner  ?"  said  Hugh,  interrogatively,  and 
with  a  smile  of  amusement  that  he  did  not  try  to  restrain. 

"Didn't  hit!"  said  Peter,  looking  up  at  the  rafters. 
"  Guess  again." 

"My  wife?" 

"That's  it!  by  the  jumping  Moses!"  exclaimed  Peter, 
bursting  into  voiceless  convulsions  of  laughter,  and  becom 
ing  so  far  mirthfully  excited  that  he  seized  Hugh  by  the 
shoulders,  and  shook  him  till  he  laughed  in  self-defence. 


238  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"How  come  you  to  think  of  that?  My  wife!"  And  he 
stretched  up  towards  the  ridge-pole,  and  swung  his  shears 
three  times  around  his  head.  "Land  ahead!"  pursued 
Peter,  still  unable  to  work  off  his  admiration  of  Hugh's 
inventive  powers,  and  his  delight  with  the  pleasantly  omi 
nous  coincidence,  "  I'd  no  idea  you  was  up  to  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"My  wife — Mary  "Woodcock,"  said  Hugh,  interrupting 
him. 

"  No — guess  again,"  said  Peter,  looking  up  at  the  rafters 
with  one  eye,  and  at  Hugh  out  of  the  corner  of  the  other. 

"Maiy  Woodcock,"  reiterated  Hugh. 

Peter  plunged  into  a  snicker,  and  came  up  with,  "  Hugh 
Parsons,  you're  the  greatest  feller  I  ever  see  in  my  life. 
Now  about  the  business." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  go  to  a  certain  girl,"  said  Peter, 
slowly,  and  with  an  extremely  sly  look  of  intelligence, 
"and  tell  her  that  you  know  of  a  young  man — you  can  say 
what  you're  a  mind  to  about  him — you  know  me  and  you 
know  my  p'ints — who  has  seen  her  several  times,  and  every 
time  he  sees  her  he  thinks  that  he  has  got  a  friend  that 
would  think  everything  of  her,  if  she  would  be  kind  enough 
to  take  a  notion  to  him,  provided  she  hasn't  done  it  before 
this.  Tell  her  she's  seen  him,  and  likes  his  looks,  and  that 
if  it  wasn't  because  he  was  bashful,  he  would  have  been  to 
see  her  some  time  ago,  and  finished  up  the  business.  When 
she  asks  you  who  the  young  man  is  that  has  got  the  friend 
that  thinks  so  much  of  her,  you  can  tell  her  it's  me — Peter 
Trimble." 

"  What  if  she  asks  who  your  friend  is  ?"  inquired  Hugh. 

"Well,  you  must  go  then  by  what  you  see.  If  she  acts 
as  if  she  was  disappointed,  or  says  she  won't  have  anything 
to  do  with  him,  you  can  be  pretty  sure,  you  see,  that  there 
ain't  anybody  in  the  plantation  that  she  likes  besides  me, 


THE     BAY     PATH.  239 

'cause  if  there  was,  she  wouldn't  know  but  it  was  jest  the 
one  I  was  making  believe  I  was  after  for  her,  and  she'd  be 
careful  not  to  tread  on  her  own  shoestrings.  But  if  she 
acts  tickled,  which  I  don't  believe  she  will  between  you  and 
I, — I  don't  now  'pon  my  word — then  it's  all  day  with  me, 
but  you  see  she  won't  knoAV  then  that  I'm  hit,  and  no 
won't  anybody  else." 

When  Peter  closed,  Hugh  was  looking  at  him  in  blank 
astonishment,  for  as  he  talked,  his  eye  grew  bright  with 
an  intense  cunning,  his  face  seemed  to  contract  to  a  small, 
sharp  mass  of  features,  his  form  was  bent  earnestly  forward, 
and  his  whole  expression  was  so  widely  different  from  any 
thing  that  he  had  previously  exhibited,  that  Hugh  sat  for  a 
minute  wondering  and  unresponsive,  while  Peter,  without 
moving,  looked  steadily  in  his  eye.  The  moment  that 
Peter  began  to  consult  his  own  safety  from  ridicule  and 
raillery,  a  vein  of  his  original  nature  was  struck,  and  the 
old  cunning  bubbled  up  as  pure  and  fresh  as  ever. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?"  continued  Peter,  breaking  the  silence. 
"If  you  tell  her  it's  me  to  start  with,  perhaps  she  wouldn't 
let  you  know  that  she  liked  me,  if  she  did  ever  so  much. 
May  be  she  wouldn't  like  anybody  to  know  it;  and  then 
again,  if  she  didn't  happen  to  like  me,  she  would  go  and 
tell  on't,  and  the  boys  would  raise  thunder  with  me." 

"Then  you  want  to  get  your  head  in,  and  keep  your 
neck  out,"  said  Hugh,  regaining  his  voice. 

"That's  it!  By  George!  you've  hit  it.  Now  you  talk," 
said  Peter,  with  enthusiasm. 

"Do  you  really  wish  to  have  me  go  through  with  all  this 
manoeuvring  for  you  ?"  inquired  Hugh,  seriously. 

"  Land  ahead !"  exclaimed  Peter,  with  a  disappointed 
air,  "  I  thought  you'd  like  it." 

"  I'm  not  one  of  that  kind,''  replied  Hugh. 

"  You  ain't  going  to  back  out  now  ?"  said  Peter,  with  an 
anxious  interrogation. 


240  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"  I  must,  positively.'' 

Peter  looked  at  Hugh,  and  his  lip  began  to  tremble.  He 
undertook  to  say  something,  but  he  broke  down,  and  put 
ting  his  head  between  his  knees,  he  began  to  sob  like  a 
baby. 

"  Peter,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  kind  and  relenting  mood,  "  I 
didn't  suppose  you  cared  so  much  about  it  as  this.  I'll  try 
to  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

"  Will  you,  though  ?"  said  Peter,  jumping  up  and  grasp 
ing  his  hand,  the  scant  tears  in  his  grey  eyes  changing  from- 
those  of  disappointment  to  those  of  sudden  joy.  "  I  was 
mighty  'fraid  you  wan't  going  to.  Between  you  and  I,  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  about  as  cheap  as  turnips,  'pon  my 
word  I  was.  Any  feller  that  had  seen  me  a  minute  ago, 
and  should  come  in  now,  would  think  I'd  had  a  rich  uncle 
die,  wouldn't  he,  Hugh  ?"  and  Peter  pitched  head  first  into 
a  snicker,  and  taking  Hugh  by  the  shoulders  he  shook  him 
till  he  cried,  "  Oh,  stop,  Peter,  for  pity's  sake." 

"  There's  great  times  ahead  for  us,"  continued  Peter,  and 
then  remembering  that  for  at  least  fifteen  minutes  his  shears 
had  remained  idle,  he  slashed  the  air  forth  and  back  furi 
ously  for  awhile,  and  then  subsided  into  a  steady  clip,  as  if 
he  were  shearing  a  sheep. 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  Peter,  changing  the  subject, 
"  I  want  to  show  you  a  hone  I've  got.  It  come  from  the 
Bay  last  week,  and  it's  a  hone,  now,  I  tell  you.  Look  at  it " 
(and  Peter  lifted  the  lid  of  his  chest,  and  drew  out  the 
article).  "You've  no  idea  of  the  difference  there  is  in  hones. 
Some  cut  away  the  steel  fast,  and  leave  a  hair  edge,  and 
some  kind  o'  gum  down." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  ?"  inquired  Hugh. 

"  Perhaps  you  wont  believe  it,"  said  Peter,  "  but  in  a  year 
from  this  time  I  shall  hone  every  razor  in  the  plantation.  It 
ain't  everybody  that  can  hone  a  razor.  You  see,  they  don't 
carry  it  even  from  heel  to  p'int,  and  then  there  ain't  half  of 


THE     BAY     PATH.  241 

'em  that  knows  when  it's  done.  They  hone  it  clear  by.  If 
you'll  bring  your  razor  here  some  rainy  day,  I'll  show  you 
all  about  it,  and  perhaps  your  hair  will  want  cutting  by  that 
time,  and  between  you  and  I,  though  it's  none  of  my  busi 
ness,  I  don't  think  a  little  shingling  would  have  done"  it  any 
hurt  to-night.  Who  in  time  cut  your  hair  last  ?" 

Before  Hugh  could  answer  this  question  hi  any  way, 
Peter  gave  another  furious  lunge  into  a  snicker,  as  if  a  sud 
den  thought  had  visited  him  with  a  blow  upon  the  back  of 
his  head,  and,  pointing  to  four  long  poles  or  rods,  bound 
with  regularly  recurring  stiips  of  old  felt,  said,  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  anything  about  my  quilting  frames  ?" 

Hugh  assured  him  that  he  never  did. 
"  Well,  y6u  see,"  said  Peter,  "  everybody  has  to  do 
more  or  less  quilting,  but  nobody  has  quilting  frames.  They 
have  to  send  round  for  'em,  and  I  r'ally  s'pose,  if  the  truth 
was  known,  that  there  ain't  in  this  settlement  such  a  set  as 
mine ;  I  don't,  now,  'pon  my  word,  if  'twas  the  last  thing  I 
had  to  say.  Well,  everybody  comes  for  mine,  and  other 
people's  quilting  frames  ain't  anywhere.  I  s'pose  if  the 
truth  was  known  there's  been  quilts  enough  put  together 
on  them  sticks  to  reach  acrost  the  river." 

"  How  do  you  make  it  pay  ?"  inquired  Hugh. 

"  Land  ahead  !  It's  pay  enough  to  have  'em  come  after 
'em,  and  go  right  by  a  house  where  they  keep  'em,  for  the 
sake  of  getting  mine.  Four  little  staddles  with  the  bark  off 
ain't  quilting  frames,  and  the  women  know  it.  Besides,  be 
tween  you  and  I,  they  always  invite  me  to  the  quilting,  and 
I've  been  home  with  three  girls  since  I've  had  them  things, 
that,  'pon  my  word,  I  believe  would  have  gone  home  with 
other  fellers  if  they  hadn't  wanted  to  borrow." 

How  much  longer  Peter  would  have  continued  in  this 
strain  had  he  not  been  disturbed,  it  is  impossible  to  tell,  but 
just  as  he  finished  the  quilting  frames,  the  chamber  door 
opened,  and  two  boys  whom  he  kept  from  quarrelling  every 

11 


242  THE     BAY     PA1H. 

night,  by  sleeping  between  them,  came  growling  up 
stairs. 

"  You'd  better  put  your  hat  on,"  said  Peter  to  Hugh 
aloud,  "  you  may  catch  cold  after  losing  such  a  fleece,"  and 
then  added  in  an  under  tone,  "  the  old  folks  are  going  to  bed 
down  stairs,  but  you  keep  your  hat  on,  and  go  right 
through  the  room.  They'll  think  it's  all  right." 

Hugh  felt,  as  the  interview  closed,  extremely  irritated  in 
the  position  into  which  his  good-nature  had  led  him.  He 
had  been  amused  with  Peter's  oddities,  but  disgusted  with 
his  low  cunning  and  shallowness,  and  he  was  vexed  with 
himself  for  having  agreed  to  serve  him  in  an  enterprise 
every  way  preposterous  and  hopeless.  Peter  saw  the  cloud 
upon  his  brow,  but  it  was  too  late  to  attempt  its  removal 
(although  he  had  his  hand  upon  an  eight-bladed  knife, 
which  he  had  intended  to  exhibit,  as  it  was  furnished  vith 
a  corkscrew,  which  several  of  the  neighbors  had  used  with 
entire  success),  and  following  his  visitor  down  stairs  told 
him  as  he  passed  through  the  kitchen  to  be  careful  about 
taking  cold.  Poor  Hugh,  as  he  walked  home,  felt  worse  and 
worse,  and  wondei-ed  more  and  more  why  he  had  not  had 
the  strength  to  stand  up  like  a  man,  and  tell  the  silly  cox 
comb  the  truth  in  regard  to  himself  and  his  plans.  And  then 
to  think  that  he  was  the  tool  of  such  a  fellow — that  he  had 
agreed  to  intercede  for  him  as  a  friend  with  one  who,  he 
could  not  help  but  feel,  would  despise  the  mediator  for  his 
office  even  more  than  his  employer  for  his  impudence,  was 
too  much  for  his  equanimity,  and  he  went  home  and  tossed 
nervously  upon  his  bed  all  night. 


CHAPTER.  XXI. 

AFTER  the  house  of  Mr.  Moxon  was  built  a  room  was 
finished  in  one  corner  for  a  study.  This  looked  out  upon 
the  street,  and  being  furnished  with  a  snug  fire-place 
afforded  the  occupant  a  pleasant  view,  whether  he  confined 
his  attention  within  the  room  or  dissipated  it  in  looking 
abroad.  In  this  room  the  minister  spent  the  most  of  his 
time.  The  late  passenger  at  night  often  saw  his  shadow  on 
the  wall  or  curtain,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  his  little  apart 
ment,  or  observed  him  at  the  window  looking  out  into  the 
night  or  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  stars.  After  occupying 
himself  at  his  sermons  during  the  day  he  often  gave  himself 
up  to  reveries,  which  possessed  him  until  his  fire  had  expired 
in  its  own  ashes,  and  he  was  reminded  of  his  bed  by  a 
feverish  head  and  a  cold  and  benumbed  frame. 

It  was  here  that  he  brooded  over  the  trials  and  disap 
pointments  of  his  life.  It  was  here  that  he  wept  over  the 
afflictions  of  his  children,  and  speculated  upon  the  cause  of 
the  calamity  with  which  they  had  been  visited.  It  was 
here  that  in  weakness  and  blindness  he  wrestled  with  the 
angel  of  God  in  prayer.  It  was  here  that  dim  suspicions 
entered  his  mind,  coming  in  like  shadows  and  growing  into 
form  and  fulness  under  his  searching  vision,  until  the  door 
at  which  they  entered  became  too  small  for  their  egress, 
and  they  remained  in  throngs. 

It  was  during  a  crisp  and  cool  evening  in  the  latter  part 
of  autumn  that  Mr.  Moxon,  having  concluded  the  labors 
of  the  day,  drew  his  chair  before  the  fire  and  subsided  into 
one  of  his  frequent  reveries.  He  went  back  in  memory  to 


244  THE     BAY     PATH. 

the  time  when  Woodcock  was  a  resident  of  the  plantation, 
and  as  he  called  up  the  scene  near  Holyoke's  house  where 
that  individual  visited  him  with  personal  indignity,  and 
thought  of  the  girl  who  in  a  moment  of  blind  passion  in 
flicted  a  wound  whose  scar  seemed  to  be  always  thrusting 
itself  into  his  sight,  the  old  flush  of  shame  and  humiliation 
mantled  his  face  and  thrilled  through  every  sensitive  fibre 
of  his  frame.  This  was  the  sorest  spot  in  all  his  expe 
rience,  and  one  which  he  could  never  touch  without  the 
keenest  pain.  „.  f 

As  the  pang  struck  him  and  diffused  its  subtle  frenzy  he 
rose  from  his  chair  with  a  hurried  sigh,  and  after  pacing  up 
and  down  his  apartment  for  a  few  minutes,  stopped  before 
the  window  and  looked  out.  He  had  stood  but  a  moment 
when  a  singular  figure  crossed  his  vision.  It  was  that  of  a 
man  clothed  like  an  Indian,  but  clumsy  and  moving  with  a 
different  gait.  The  man  had  evidently  been  standing  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  window,  and  was  induced  to  move 
by  the  impression  that  the  minister  saw  him.  He  was, 
however,  soon  out  of  sight,  and  Mr.  Moxon  forgot  the  cir 
cumstance  as  he  resumed  his  seat  at  the  fire. 

Soon  the  old  subject  recurred,  and,  this  time,  his 
thoughts  stopped  with  Mary  Woodcock.  From  the  time 
she  had  bitten  him  until  then,  her  act  had  never  been 
alluded  to  by  him.  She  had  grown  up  to  womanhood,  and 
with  such  a  determined  character  that  he  did  not  choose 
to  violate  his  promise  to  her  father  not  to  molest  her.  But 
he  could  not  give  up  the  desire  to  detect  the  agent  in  the 
affliction  of  his  children,  nor  the  suspicion  that  she  was  the 
guilty  party. 

At  that  time,  sorcery  and  witchcraft  were  prevalent  in 
England,  and  had  been,  for  the  previous  fifty  years.  He 
had  written  for  and  received  books,  giving  the  details  of 
numerous  cases,  and  had  sought  for  light  upon  the  subject 
in  all  possible  directions.  While,  upon  this  occasion,  he 


THE     BAY     PATH.  245 

was  wondering  what  means  could  be  resorted  to  for  the 
detection  of  Mary  Woodcock,  he  recalled  the  singular  com 
munication  which  has  already  been  mentioned  as  having 
fallen  into  his  hands.  Immediately  rising,  he  went  to  his 
desk,  and,  opening  a  drawer,  withdrew  a  small  package. 
Taking  off  the  wrapper,  he  selected  the  communication 
alluded  to,  and  replaced  the  package  in  the  drawer. 

As  he  was  turning  to  leave  the  desk,  he  knocked  from  a 
shelf  an  apple — one  of  the  first  fruits  of  the  new  orchards 
of  the  plantation,  which  had  been  presented  to  him — but, 
instead  of  returning  it  to  its  place,  he  took  it  with  him  to 
the  fire,  and  set  it  upon  the  hearth  to  roast.  He  sat  down, 
and  opened  the  communication.  It  was  evidently  written 
with  a  pencil  of  common  lead,  upon  a  strip  of  birch 
bark: 

"  Mary : — JBe  gentle  and  good,  and  please  your  master, 
and  you  shall  be  helped  by  one  you  cannot  see" 

These  words,  clumsily  traced  and  sadly  misspelled,  com 
prised  the  entire  text  of  the  wonderful  manuscript.  The 
minister  inserted  his  knife  under  a  layer  of  the  bark,  and, 
separating  it,  threw  it  upon  the  coals.  The  flash  from  it 
was  as  instantaneous  as  if  it  had  been  gunpowder — so  sharp 
and  powerful  that  he  started  with  affright,  and  retreated  to 
his  desk  with  the  communication,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  flame. 

He  had  hardly  reseated  himself,  when  he  heard  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and,  on  opening  it,  greeted  and  admitted  a  resi 
dent  of  the  plantation  with  whom  the  reader  has  not  yet 
made  an  acquaintance.  This  man  was  Deacon  Samuel 
Chapin,  a  tall,  austere-looking  individual,  whom  the  mi 
nister  saluted  with  much  warmth,  and  who,  on  advancing 
into  the  little  study,  looked  around,  with  a  not  unpleasant 
expression  in  his  keen  grey  eyes,  and  paid,  "  It  seems  plea 
sant,  now  and  then,  to  visit  the  place  where  yoi  prepare  the 
food  for  the  flock  of  Christ.  I  warrant  I  have  disturbed 


246  THE     BAT     PATH. 

you  in  meditations  which  belong  to  the  whole  of  your  little 
Israel." 

"  No,  sir,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Moxon  pleasantly,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  of  something  more  strictly  selfish  and  per 
sonal." 

Deacon  Chapin's  eyes  looked  pleased,  while  his  face  still 
maintained  its  austere  expression,  as  he  accepted  the  mi 
nister's  invitation,  and,  slowly  rubbing  his  hands  before  the 
fire,  said,  "  I  esteem  your  society  a  great  privilege,  Mr. 
Moxon,  and  shall  be  very  happy  to  enjoy  it,  if  I  can  do  so 
without  disturbing  you,  and  being  the  means  of  sending 
leanness  into  the  bones  of  the  other  members  of  your 
flock." 

The  reader  will  at  once  perceive  that  Deacon  Chapin 
was  a  good  man,  and  thoroughly  understood  the  road  to 
his  minister's  heart.  He  did  not  become  a  settler  at  Aga- 
wam  until  sevei'al  years  after  the  first  planters,  but  his 
severe  manners,  pliable  tongue,  and  shrewd  personal  policy, 
had  carried  him  along  rapidly  in  the  path  of  advancement. 
On  being  made  a  deacon  of  the  church,  he  had  moved  for 
the  erection  of  a  meeting-house,  and  it  had  risen,  with  its  six 
blank  looking  windows,  and  its  two  turrets — a  belfry  and  a 
watch-tower — and  had  become  the  place  for  holding  meet 
ings  upon  the  Sabbath,  and  all  the  public  assemblies  of  the 
plantation.  He  had  been  the  means,  too,  of  bringing 
several  members  of  the  church  under  wholesome  discipline. 
In  short,  he  had  been  an  active  man,  in  everything  per 
taining  to  the  spiritual  well-being  of  the  community,  a 
strict  adherent  to  orthodox  doctrine,  and  one  who,  in 
coming  from  the  Bay,  brought  the  spirit  of  the  Bay  with 
him. 

It  was  noticed  that  after  the  meetings  of  the  plantation 
were  removed  from  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon  to  the  new 
meeting-house,  the  influence  of  the  latter  gentleman  in  the 
minor  affairs  of  the  settlement  had  declined,  but  no  one 


THE     BAY     PATH.  247 

supposed  that  Deacon  Chapin  had  an  eye  to  this  result  in 
obtaining  the  erection  of  the  house.  Everybody  knew  him. 
for  a  thrifty  man — a  man  who  slid  into  prosperity  and  pre 
ferment  with  a  kind  of  facility  that  betrayed  a  pushing  wrill 
and  a  track  made  smooth  by  a  never-tiring  urbanity.  The 
young  men  and  young  women  were  afraid  of  him.  The 
boys  took  off  their  hats  to  him  by  instinct,  as  they  had  been 
taught  to  take  them  off  in  obeisance  to  the  minister,  the 
magistrate,  and  Mr.  Holyoke. 

Deacon  Chapin  sat  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  pleasant 
dignity  before  Mr.  Moxon's  fire,  after  his  considerate  ex 
pression  of  care  for  the  church,  and  waited  for  the  minister 
to  begin  the  conversation. 

"  I  have  long  desired,"  said  the  latter,  hesitatingly,  "  to 
say  something  to  you  upon  a  subject  which  interests  me 
deeply,  but  have  been  prevented  by  the  wish  not  to  burden 
others  with  trials  sent  upon  me." 

Dea,  Chapin  made  a  bow,  said  nothing,  and  kept  slowly 
rubbing  his  hands  before  the  fire. 

"  You  have  probably  heard  of  occurrences  which  took 
place  previous  to  your  settlement  in  Agawam." 

Dea.  Chapin  bowed  again,  as  if  he  perfectly  understood 
the  allusion,  and  Avould  spare  the  minister  the  pain  of  refer 
ring  to  them  more  definitely. 

"  You  doubtless  know  something  of  the  trials  I  have 
experienced  in  my  family  since  your  residence  here." 

Dea.  Chapin  bowed  again,  and,  shifting  in  his  seat,  leaned 
his  ear  towards  the  minister,  in  a  way  quite  expressive  of  a 
desire  to  learn  something  more. 

"  The  children  are  different,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  instantly 
seeming  to  catch  the  deacon's  meaning,  as  the  deacon  had 
caught  his  own.  "Martha  is  extremely  wild  at  times,  and 
is  open  and  free  in  her  accusations  of  the  one  who  afflicts  her. 
I  have  told  no  one  but  you  of  this,  but  the  people,  I  understand, 
have  fastened  their  suspicions  upon  the  same  individual." 


248  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Dea.  Chapin  bowed  again,  and  turned  his  face  directly 
towards  the  minister,  as  if  he  expected  that  gentleman  to 
unbosom  himself  entirely. 

"  Rebekah,  on  the  contrary,  is  gentle,  and  seems  to  be  in 
some  mysterious  manner  connected  with  her  sister.  It  has 
been  so  from  the  first.  They  seem  to  suffer  together, 
though  in  different  kind  and  degree.  I  have  read  exten 
sively  in  regard  to  witchcraft,  and  the  open  manifestations 
of  the  Adversary  among  men,  and  I  have  been  convinced, 
for  ten  years,  that  Satan  is  afflicting  me  through  my  children, 
and  them  through  the  wicked  agency  of  individuals  in  this 
plantation." 

"  It  will  hardly  be  necessary  for  me,"  said  the  deacon 
blandly,  "  to  remind  my  minister  that  whom  the  Lord 
loveth  he  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth  every  son  whom  he 
receiveth." 

Mr.  Moxon  drew  a  painful  sigh,  as  he  replied,  "  It  is  long 
since  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  appropriating  to  myself 
the  promises  of  God.  It  seems  as  if  His  threatenings  were 
intended  for  me,  and  they  hang  above  my  soul  always,  as 
if  ready  to  fall  upon  and  crush  me." 

"  But  you  must  remember,"  said  the  deacon,  "  that  if  you 
were  not  a  true  branch  of  Christ,  you  would  be  taken  away. 
The  branches  that  bear  fruit  are  those  which  are  purged, 
that  they  may  bring  forth  more  fruit." 

Now  the  deacon  was  not  consciously  insincere  in  his  ad 
dress  to  the  minister.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  com 
forting  things,  and  pleasant  things,  to  those  who  held  posi 
tion  and  influence.  It  was  the  habit  of  his  life.  It  did  him 
good,  and  it  did  them  good ;  and  his  policy  in  this  matter 
had  wrought,  in  deed  and  in  truth,  a  very  good  work  in  the 
plantation.  Many  a  man  went  about  his  business  from  an 
interview  with  Dea.  Chapin  with  a  self-respect  that  was  a 
rarity  in  his  experience,  and  played  a  better  and  more  dig 
nified  part  in  life,  until  the  influence  of  the  interview  had 


THE     BAY     PATH.  249 

departed.  Some  flattering  or  encouraging  word,  some 
expression  of  respect,  or  some  marked  attention,  always 
made  impressively  grateful  by  the  dignified  politeness  of  its 
style  of  exhibition,  had  a  marvellous  effect  upon  all  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact. 

It  is  true  that  it  all  made  the  deacon's  path  more  plea 
sant  and  easy,  and  gave  him  consideration  and  power  with 
all,  but  few  ever  dreamed  that  he  had  an  eye  to  his  own  in 
terests  in  the  premises.  The  minister  knew  him,  and  was 
glad  to  see  him.  The  deacon  knew  the  minister,  and,  while 
he  really  had  a  desire  to  cheer  him,  and  had  brought  honest 
ly  before  him  the  comforts  of  religion,  he  had  also  a  desire 
to  learn  certain  things  which  the  minister  knew,  and  with 
that  object  definitely  in  view  had  thus  far  pursued  his  course 
and  conversation. 

"  You  spoke,"  said  the  deacon,  "  of  one  individual  whom 
you  suspected  of  being  the  agent  of  Satan  in  your  affliction;" 
and  he  paused,  as  if  that  were  a  direct  and  definite  ques 
tion. 

"  His  daughter,"  replied  the  minister. 

The  deacon  threw  up  his  chin  decisively,  as  if  it  were  a 
confirmation  of  his  own  suspicions. 

"  Just  before  you  entered,"  said  Mr.  Moxon,  "  I  was  ex 
amining  a  little  communication  which  you  probably  heard 
of  at  the  time  it  was  discovered.  Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  look  at  it  again,"  and  he  rose  and  handed  to  him  the 
mysterious  note. 

The  deacon  read  it  through,  held  it  against  the  light, 
and  then  inquired  of  the  minister  whether  he  knew  the 
hand- writing. 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  the  minister.  "It  is  not  that  of  any 
man  in  this  plantation.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Who 
is  he  whom  she  cannot  see  ?  What  is  he  going  to  help  her 
to  do  ?  Who  is  her  master  ?  What  does  he  mean  by  being 
gentle  and  good  ?" 

11* 


250  THE     BAT     PATH. 

These  questions  were  pronounced  at  little  intervals,  the 
deacon  bowing  at  each,  as  if  he  were  swallowing  it  for  diges 
tion.  When  they  were  concluded,  he  simply  said,  "  It's  all 
very  strange,  is  it  not  ?'' — and  reaching  down  to  the  minis 
ter's  apple,  where  it  was  sputtering  and  becoming  brown 
before  the  fire,  he  turned  it  round  by  the  stem  in  order  to 
expose  the  other  side. 

"  I  suppose,  of  course,"  said  the  deacon,  as  he  resumed 
his  position,  "  that  you  have  talked  this  all  over  with  your 
friend  Mr.  Pynchon.  He  is  somewhat  advanced  in  years, 
and  grey  hairs  should  bring  wisdom." 

"  I  formerly  communicated  with  him  upon  the  subject,'' 
replied  the  minister,  "  but  he  gave  me  neither  comfort  nor 
instruction." 

"  Perhaps  we  expect  too  much  of  him,"  suggested  the 
deacon.  "He  has  a  great  many  cares,  and  I  understand 
that  he  spends  a  great  deal  of  time  in  study.  Do  you  know 
anything  of  the  book  he  has  recently  written  ?'' 

"  Yes — I  have  seen  something  of  it,''  replied  Mr.  Moxon. 

"  Something  which  will  edify  the  church — something 
sound  and  well  adapted  to  these  Zions  in  the  wilderness, 
I  presume,''  continued  the  deacon,  affirmatively  and  sugges 
tively  together. 

"  Doctrinal,  mostly,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Orthodox,  I'll  warrant.  Ah !  that's  a  very  fine  old 
man  !"  and  the  deacon  rubbed  his  hands  and  pushed  his 
chair  back  from  the  hearth,  as  if,  with  such  a  generous  glow 
of  friendship  in  his  bosom,  the  fire  was  n  little  too  much  for 
him. 

Mr.  Moxon  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  for  the  deacon, 
when  he  resolutely  set  about  boring  for  a  secret,  never  re 
leased  him  till  the  fountain  was  reached,  and  had  relinquish 
ed  its  treasure.  He  understood  him  on  this  tack  in  the 
progress  of  conversation,  as  well  as  on  those  which  had  pre 
ceded  it,  but  he  hesitated  to  speak  fully  of  matters  concern- 


THE     BAY     PATH.  251 

ing  which  he  knew  it  became  him  to  preserve  silence  ;  so  he 
simply  assented  to  the  latter  clause  of  the  deacon's  exclama 
tion  without  any  allusion  to  the  former. 

"  Man's  inability  ?"  suggested  the  deacon,  with  an  inquir 
ing  turn  of  the  head. 

"No.     Oh!  no." 

"  Depravity  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  remember  correctly." 

"  Atonement  ?"  and  the  deacon  turned  directly  around, 
and  looked  the  minister  in  the  face. 

"  No — that  is — not  exactly.  The  subject  is  connected 
with  the  atonement,  somewhat  intimately,  to  be  sure,  but — " 
and  the  minister  hesitated  whether  to  put  a  stop  to  the  con 
versation  where  it  was,  or  to  go  on,  and  reveal  what  he  knew. 

"  That  is  a  favorite  subject  with  the  old  man,"  interrupt 
ed  the  deacon.  "  What  view  did  he  take  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  proceeded  the  minister,  reluctantly,  "  on 
the  subject  of  the  nature  of  Christ's  sufferings,  he  has  not 
advanced  and  defended  the  views  which  prevail  in  the  Bay 
churches.  I  differ  with  him,  and  perhaps  it  is  my  duty  to 
make  his  views  a  matter  of  inquiry  in  the  church, — perhaps 
I  have  been  remiss." 

"It  cannot  be  anything  very  heretical,  I  know,"  remarked 
the  attentive  deacon.  "  It  would  not  be  like  him  to  conceive 
it,  nor  like  you  to  conceal  it.  What  are  his  peculiar  views  ?" 

"Well,  if  I  understood  him,  he  does  not  believe  that 
Christ  suffered  the  essential  torments  of  hell  for  the  salva 
tion  of  men,  and  contends  that  God  did  not  impute  the  sins 
of  men  to  him." 

"I  think  you  must  have  misunderstood  him,"  said  the 
deacon  positively,  and  with  every  manifestation  of  charita 
ble  confidence  in  the  magistrate. 

"That  could  hardly  have  been,"  replied  the  minister, 
"  for  I  argued  the  matter  with  him  at  length." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?    What  could  he  say  ?" 


252  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Well,  he  said  it  was  an  absurdity  to  accuse  a  God  of 
justice,  while  vindicating  his  justice,  of  imputing  sin  to  an 
innocent  being ;  and  that  hell  torment,  being  directly  con 
nected  with  a  consciousness  of  personal  guilt,  could  never 
be  experienced  by  Jesus  Christ,  from  the  fact  that  person 
ally  he  was  never  guilty.  I  found  it  a  difficult  matter  to 
overthrow  his  subtle  reasonings,  and  left  him,  praying  that 
he  might  fall  into  no  fatal  errors." 

The  deacon  looked  for"  a  long  minute  into  the  fire,  and 
then,  with  a  sigh,  remarked  that  it  was  strange  how  the 
best  minds  in  the  world  would  sometimes  be  left  to  the 
entertainment  of  dangerous  heresies.  He  thought  it  was 
a  lesson  to  the  ministry,  on  the  importance  of  keeping 
before  the  people  constantly  the  great  doctrines  of  the  Gos 
pel  in  all  their  simplicity  and  purity.  He  had  been  run 
ning  back  in  recollection  to  see  if  Mr.  Moxon  had  preached 
a  sermon  against  this  peculiar  form  of  heresy,  and  ended 
by  informing  that  gentleman  that  he  had  doubtless  preached 
upon  the  subject  on  some  Sabbath  when  he  (the  deacon) 
was  detained  at  home  by  sickness.  Mr.  Moxon  colored 
slightly  at  the  reproof,  and  confessed  that  he  never  had  felt 
called  upon  to  preach  directly  to  Mr.  Pynchon,  as,  if  he 
could  not  convince  him  of  his  error  in  a  personal  argument, 
it  would  hardly  avail  him  more  to  engage  in  a  pulpit  demon 
stration  against  his  private  opinions. 

"  That  would  depend  something  upon  what  the  book  was 
written  for,"  replied  the  deacon.  "  If  it  was  written  for 
private  gratification,  to  be  shown  only  to  friends,  it  would 
doubtless  save  scandal  in  the  church  to  refrain  from  its 
exposure.  I  presume  that  Mr.  Pynchon  would  hardly 
think  of  publishing  his  book." 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  minister,  desperately,  for 
he  saw  that  it  must  come,  "  the  book  has  long  been  in  the 
hands  of  the  printers  in  London,  and  may  be  expected  at 
the  Bay  within  a  short  time." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  253 

Deacon  Chapin  shook  his  head  slowly  as  he  sat  gazing 
into  the  fire,  and  said,  "  I'm  sorry — very  sorry,"  and  then, 
as  he  had  sifted  this  matter  sufficiently,  he  suddenly  remem 
bered  that  he  had  drawn  the  minister  away  from  the  subject 
upon  which  he  had  commenced,  and  turning  to  him,  he 
observed  that  gentleman  engaged  in  snuffing  suspiciously 
at  the  piece  of  birch  bark  which  he  had  not  yet  returned 
to  the  desk. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  deacon  gravely,  but  with  a 
smile  in  his  eyes,  "  are  you  on  the  scent  ?" 

The  minister,  without  noticing  the  attempt  at  raillery, 
handed  the  deacon  the  bark  manuscript,  with  a  nod  which 
meant  "  Smell  of  it  yourself." 

The  deacon  did  so,  and  exclaimed  "  Musk !" 

"  He's  around  to-night,"  remarked  the  minister  nervously. 
"  I  feel  him  myself,  and  so  do  my  children,  I  presume.  You 
will  find  this  scent  all  over  the  house.  You  will  find  it,  I 
have  no  doubt,  in  the  very  centre  of  that  apple,  which  has 
been  roasting  before  the  fire  ever  since  you  have  been  here." 

The  deacon  stooped  to  lift  the  apple,  and  drawing  out  his 
knife,  cut  it  in  two.  The  stench  reached  his  nostrils  before 
the  apple  itself  was  half  way  there,  and  impulsively  he 
dashed  the  whole  upon  the  hearth,  where  it  lay,  crushed 
and  steaming,  and  filling  the  room  with  its  odor  to  a 
greatly  offensive  degree.  The  man  was  evidently  asto 
nished.  It  was  such  a  demonstration  as  he  had  not  dreamed 
of  witnessing,  and  one  which  he  regretted  to  have  witnessed. 
But  his  equanimity  did  not  forsake  him,  and  he  coolly  asked 
the  minister  whom  he  alluded  to. 

"Martha,  and  those  generally  who  are  bewitched,  call 
him  the  Black  Man,"  replied  the  minister.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  is  one  of  the  emissaries  of  the  Adversary, 
and  that  he  has  been  drawn  here  by  our  conversation  about 
this  piece  of  birch  bark,"  and  rising,  the  minister  returned 
it  to  the  desk. 


254  THE     BAT     PATH. 

He  had  hardly  reseated  himself  when  his  oldest  daughter, 
in  a  loose  night  robe  of  white,  and  with  her  long  black  hair 
dangling  upon  her  shoulders,  threw  the  door  hurriedly  open, 
and,  gliding  into  the  study,  went  directly  to  the  fire,  seated 
herself  close  up  to  the  ashes  upon  a  stick  of  wood,  and 
gazed  with  a  vacant  stare  into  the  flames. 

The  movement  was  accomplished  so  quickly  and  so 
silently,  that  both  of  the  witnesses  were  entirely  absorbed 
in  the  vision,  and  remained  quietly  in  their  seats.  Mr. 
Moxon  looked  at  his  daughter  a  moment,  and  then, 
covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  gave  his  mind  to  silent 
prayer. 

It  was  a  strange,  wild  sight.  The  girl  was  pale,  and  her 
countenance  seemed  almost  deathlike  in  the  contrast  with 
her  black  hair  and  eyes ;  and  as  the  flame  flashed  high  in 
the  chimney,  and  fluttered  about  the  jambs,  and  painted 
dim  and  uneasy  shadows  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the 
room,  and  irradiated  her  impassive  features  with  its  trem 
bling  and  fitful  glories,  the  imagination  of  the  deacon 
became  inflamed  with  fears  which  he  could  not  repress.  He 
felt  almost  as  if  he  wrere  within  the  power  of  the  Adversary 
himself.  Every  hair  upon  his  head  prickled  with  a  preter 
natural  apprehension,  and  he  felt  himself  shivering  and  the 
cold  perspiration  starting  from  his  forehead.  Before  the 
power  of  speech  came  to  him,  and  while,  half  fascinated,  he 
sat  absorbed  in  the  weird  vision,  the  girl  whispered  faintly, 
"  Where  is  my  supper  ?"  Then,  as  if  her  question  had  been 
answered  to  her  mind,  she  turned  around  upon  her  seat, 
with  an  expression  of  delight  upon  her  tongue,  but  with  no 
corresponding  expression  upon  her  face,  and  dropping  her 
hand  suddenly  to  the  hearth,  took  up  the  crushed  and  still 
steaming  and  offensive  apple,  and  devoured  it  with  a  greed 
iness  that  was  sickening.  When  she  had  swallowed  the 
apple,  she  turned  again  to  the  fire,  and  gazed  unblinkiugly 
into  the  blaze. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  255 

"Martha!"  said  Mr.  Moxon  tenderly,  as  he  uncovered 
his  eyes. 

The  girl  lifted  her  eyes  to  him,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Martha,  what  did  you  c.ome  in  here  for  to-night?  What 
made  you  come  here  ?" 

"  I  came  after  my  supper,"  said  the  girl.  "  She  told  me 
to  come." 

"  She  means  the  one  we  were  talking  about,"  remarked 
the  minister,  in  a  side  explanation  to  the  deacon. 

The  deacon  nodded  and  drew  a  long  breath  which  must 
have  filled  the  furthest  recess  of  his  lungs,  and  it  was  well 
that  he  received,  at  the  moment,  its  fortifying  influence,  for, 
in  the  high  tension  of  his  nervous  sensibilities,  he  detected 
a  slight  sound  at  the  door,  and  on  turning  his  eyes  in  that 
direction,  the  younger  sister  made  her  appearance,  walking 
slowly,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  some  object  before  her.  The 
attention  of  both  the  deacon  and  the  father  of  the  child 
became  absorbed  in  observing  the  movements  of  Rebekah, 
who,  with  perfect  serenity  upon  her  features,  advanced 
towards  the  desk,  and  taking  up  the  bark  manuscript,  held 
it  to  her  forehead,  and  stood  motionless  with  it  there,  for 
several  minutes. 

In  the  meantime,  Martha  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and, 
advancing  towards  her  sister,  gently  removed  the  manu 
script  from  her  hand,  replaced  it  upon  the  desk,  and  led 
her  to  the  fire,  where  the  two  stood  in  a  sisterly  embrace, 
and  in  apparent  unconsciousness  of  the  presence  of  the 
(deacon.  The  latter  individual  had  seen  much  more  than 
he  anticipated,  and  was  really  anxious  to  leave  the  house. 
His  superstitious  fears  had  never  been  so  much  excited, 
and  had  never  been  excited  on  so  rational  a  stimulant. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  deacon  kindly,  addressing  the 
minister,  and  rising  and  rubbing  his  trembling  hands,  "  you 
would  prefer  to  be  left  alone  with  your  poor  children.  I 
think  I  had  better  bid  you  a  good  evening." 


256  THE     BAY     PATH. 

The  minister  rose,  as  Deacon  Chapin  addressed  him,  and 
the  latter  observed  that  he  was  under  a  new  and  strange 
influence.  He  was  deadly  pale,  and  was  trembling  violently. 
On  turning  again  to  the  children,  they  were  observed  to  be 
similarly  affected.  The  father  drew  them  to  him,  and  sank 
into  his  chair  with  them  in  his  embrace,  and  there  the  three 
shuddered  and  shook  together.  The  deacon's  equanimity 
was  fairly  upset,  and  he  began  to  draw  his  breath  spasmodi 
cally,  and  to  tremble  with  fear  and  sympathy. 

Looking  up,  with  a  determinatio'n  to  break  from  a  scene 
whose  horrors  were  every  moment  increasing,  his  eye  detect 
ed  a  black,  grizzly  face  at  the  window,  looking  fixedly  in 
upon  the  group.  He  wiped  his  eyes  to  assure  himself  that 
it  was  not  a  phantom  of  his  excited  imagination,  but  there 
it  stood  ;  and,  as  the  fire  danced  in  the  chimney,  and  played 
upon  the  walls,  and  sent  out  its  flashes  into  the  darkness,  it 
painted  that  face  •  alternately  with  scowls  and  sneers,  or 
lighted  its  eyes  with  a  fiendish  glare,  or  shaped  its  lips  to  a 
horrible  grin.  He  stepped  across  the  room  to  assure  him 
self  that  it  was  not  an  illusion  wrought  by  the  imperfect 
glass,  but  the  face  remained.  He  would  then  have  left  the 
house,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  encounter  the  owner  of  that 
face  in  the  darkness. 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  is  a  very  singular-looking  face 
at  the  window  ?"  said  the  deacon  softly,  bending  down  to 
the  minister's  ear. 

"  I  know  that  the  tormentor  is  very  near,"  replied  the 
minister  with  a  renewed  shiver.  "  I  feel  his  presence,  and 
these  poor  children  feel^t  even  more  than  myself.  We  can 
do  nothing  but  submit,  and  give  ourselves  to  prayer." 

The  deacon  turned  his  attention  to  the  window  again,  and 
there  still  hung  the  face,  paling  and  flushing,  and  scowling 
and  grinning  fantastically  in  the  fire-light,  but  the  eyes  were 
evidently  looking  at  an  object  on  the  desk,  near  the  window, 
and  did  not  observe,  for  a  moment,  their  observer.  In  an 


THE     BAY     PATH.  257 

instant,  a  pane  of  glass  was  burst  through,  and  a  rough  arm, 
reaching  to  the  desk,  snatched  the  dark  manuscript,  and 
withdrawing  it,  disappeared  with  the  face  in  the  darkness. 
The  children  uttered  a  wild  scream  as  the  glass  flew  out  and 
came  tinkling  across  the  floor,  which  was  echoed  by  the 
retreating  visitant  with  a  peal  of  derisive  laughter;  and  that, 
in  turn,  seemed  to  be  echoed  by  intermingled  screams  and 
laughter  that  were  repeated  from  the  walls  of  houses,  or 
came  more  faintly  back  from  distant  hill  sides. 

When  the  last  hollow  murmur  had  died  away,  the  children 
rubbed  their  eyes,  looked  up  in  surprise  upon  the  face  of  the 
deacon,  then  down  upon  their  night  dresses,  and  were 
beginning  to  cry,  when  their  father  hurriedly  led  them  from 
the  room.*  The  visitor  could  not  leave,  of  course,  until  the 
return  of  the  minister,  and  so  stood,  hat  in  hand,  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  little  study,  until  that  gentleman  came  feebly 
back,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  They  stood  face  to 
face  for  a  moment,  when  the  deacon,  having  been  thoroughly 
melted  into  sympathy,  the  two  impulsively  laid  their  hands 
on  each  other's  shoulders,  and  bowed  before  a  common  emo 
tion.  The  embrace  was  not  long,  but  it  did  the  minister  good, 
for  he  thought  there  was  one  heart  at  least  thoroughly  won 
to  an  apprehension  and  appreciation  of  his  trials. 

The  deacon  did  not  linger,  but,  with  a  few  kind  words  of 
counsel  and  sympathy,  took  his  leave,  and,  with  a  sense  of 
relief,  drew  a  long  breath  again  in  the  open  air.  The  cool 
ness  of  the  night  restored  tone  to  his  trembling  nerves,  and 
as  he  bent  his  steps  homewards,  he  found  himself  calmly 
revolving  and  analysing  what  he  had  seen.  There  was 
something  in  it  very  mysterious — that  was  certain.  There 

*  It  can  hardly  be  necessf  ry,  at  this  day,  to  suggest  animal  magnetism 
as  the  explanation  of  the  strange  phenomena  connected  with  this  family. 
That  this  mysterious  agency  or  influence  has  always  had  an  intimate 
connexion  with  witchcraft,  associated  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  with 
deception  and  delusion,  will  not,  it  is  presumed,  be  denied. 


258  THE     BAY     PATH. 

was  such  a  thing  as  witchcraft — everybody  admitted  that — 
and  this  was  a  genuine  case.  What  was  the  true  policy  in 
regard  to  its  treatment  ?  Was  it  best  for  him — Deacon  Cha- 
pin — and  for  the  settlement  generally,  to  engage  in  a  vigorous 
crusade  against  the  foul  sin,  and  be  the  means  of  expurgat 
ing  the  community  of  it,  or  to  keep  in  the  background,  and 
wait  for  the  indication  of  occasions  ?  He  would  think  of  it 
after  he  had  slept. 

When  the  deacon  arrived  at  his  home  he  found  a  neighbor 
waiting  to  transact  some  business,  and  met  him  with  a  dig 
nity  of  manner  and  austerity  of  countenance  that  charac 
terized  him  in  his  usual  intercourse, — with  not  a  trace  of  the 
emotions  by  which,  within  the  previous  hour,  he  had  been 
agitated.  The  shrewd  and  pleasant  eyes  moved  calmly  in 
their  sockets,  the  little  word  that  should  make  that  man's 
heart  feel  warm  all  the  way  home — warm  towards  the 
world  in  general,  and  Deacon  Chapin  in  particular — was 
said,  the  bargain  was  closed,  and  the  neighbor  was  on  his 
homeward  way,  smiling  and  talking  pleasantly  to  himself. 

When  the  deacon  calmly  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep  that 
night,  the  minister  rose  from  his  chair,  replenished  his  fire, 
and  until  after  midnight  his  sturdy  shadow  mingled  upon 
the  wall  with  those  that  play  hide-and-seek  with  the  freakish 
flashes  of  the  fire-light. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  interview  between  Peter  Trim 
ble  and  Hugh  Parsons,  those  individuals  accidentally  met. 
The  former  was  ready  for  the  meeting,  but  the  latter  was 
not.  Peter  had  arranged  his  inquiries  for  every  possible 
contingency,  and  (there  being  sevei-al  individuals  present)  he 
asked  Hugh  if  he  had  "  been  to  Spain."  On  receiving  the 
reply  that  he  had  not,  he  asked  him  if  he  had  "  seen  the 
queen."  Having  obtained  the  same  reply,  he  inquired  if  it 
were  not  about  time  he  was  taking  the  voyage.  Hugh  ob 
ligingly  told  him  that  perhaps  it  was,  and  Peter,  as  he  parted 
from  him,  remarked  that  he  should  think  so. 

The  next  day  the  two  met  again,  when  Peter  asked  whe 
ther  Hugh  had  succeeded  in  "  treeing  the  squirrel "  which 
he  understood  he  was  after,  and  propounded  various  other 
inquiries  based  on  that  peculiarly  happy  figure  of  speech. 
Hugh  saw  that  he  was  to  have  no  peace  until  something  had 
been  done  towards  fulfilling  the  mission  he  had  so  foolishly 
assumed,  and  desperately  determined  to  call  on  Mary 
"Woodcock,  and  make  known  his  unpleasant  business. 

On  a  convenient  evening,  therefore,  Hugh  made  his  toilet 
with  such  taste  as  his  means  would  allow,  walked  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Holyoke,  and  hurriedly  knocking  at  the  door, 
as  if  apprehensive  that  his  courage  would  fail  him  should  he 
delay,  he  stood  with  a  pale  face  and  a  throbbing  heart  await 
ing  the  answer  to  his  summons.  The  door  was  opened  by 
Mary  herself,  and  Hugh  could  not  choose  but  notice  the 
delight  that  flashed  in  her  dark  eye,  and  illuminated — as 
the  lightning  a  cloud — her  strong  and  expressive  features, 


260  THE     BAY     PATH. 

when  she  took  his  hand,  and  invited  him  into  the 
house. 

Fortune  had  favored  Hugh  with  the  choice  of  an  even 
ing  when  Holyoke  and  his  wife  were  absent,  and  in  Mary's 
smile  there  was  a  satisfaction  and  delight  that  were  based 
upon  an  instant  comprehension  of  the  circumstances  of  the 
visit.  Mary  retained  Hugh's  passive  hand  within  her  own 
as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  then  she  led  him  to  a  seat 
with  a  gallantry  and  tenderness  of  manner  which  were  the 
appropriate  expression  of  the  sentiments  which  possessed 
her.  When  she  had  placed  Hugh's  hat  upon  the  table  she 
returned  to  the  fire,  and  taking  a  seat  where  she  could  look 
him  fairly  in  the  face,  regarded  him  with  an  affectionate 
admiration  which  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal.  Hugh 
timidly  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  had  ever 
seen.  Instead  of  being  abashed  as  he  had  expected  to  be  in 
her  presence,  he  suddenly  felt  his  heart  going  out  to  her  in 
confidence  and  trust,  and  self-possession  came  with  the  assur 
ance  that  his  spirit  was  in  harmony  with  her  own. 

Mary  inquired  for  his  health  and  that  of  his  father's 
family,  wondered  he  had  never  called  upon  her  before, 
frankly  declared  her  delight  with  the  opportunity  of  an  in 
terview,  and  then  referred  to  the  day  on  which  she  saw 
him  in  the  training  band,  when  (she  told  him  without  re 
serve)  she  was  "  looking  at  him  all  the  time." 

There  was  nothing  in  Hugh's  nature  that  revolted  at  this 
forwardness.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt  that  he  had  never 
previously  met  a  woman  so  agreeable.  There  was  some 
thing  in  her  frankness,  her  self-confidence,  her  strength  and 
fearlessness,  that  impressed  him  with  admiration,  and  as  he 
sat  and  gazed  upon  her,  and  listened  to  her  impulsive  utter 
ances,  all  the  women  he  had  ever  known  sank  to  mere 
nothings  in  his  estimation. 

Just  as  a  faint  idea  of  the  real  character  of  the  impression 


THE     BAY     PATH.  261 

she  was  making  upon  him  crept  into  his  consciousness,  the 
object  of  his  visit  obtruded  itself,  and  in  dissipating  a  beau 
tiful  drearu  which  had  begun  to  overshadow  him  quite  up- 
set  his  equanimity. 

"  I  came,"  said  Hugh,  determined  to  keep  his  promise  at 
all  hazards,  and  blushing  to  his  temples,  "  on  a  queer 
errand,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  blame  me  for  it,  for  I 
really  could  not  get  along  very  well  without  promising  to 
come." 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  Mr.  Holyoke  ?"  inquired  Mary — 
adding,  "  if  you  do,  he  is  not  at  home,  and  his  wife  is  ab 
sent  also." 

"No,  I  came  to  see  you,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  be 
offended  with  me  for  coming  on  such  an  errand." 

"Just  think  of  my  being  offended  with  you!"  exclaimed 
Mary,  bursting  into  a  hearty  ringing  laugh  which  disturbed 
the  sleeping  children  in  the  next  room.  Then,  as  her  merri 
ment  subsided,  she  bade  Hugh  get  rid  of  his  errand  as 
quickly  as  possible  and  fear  nothing. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Hugh,  "'I  was  down  to  see  Peter 
Trimble  the  other  night — he  wanted  me  to  come — and  he 
wanted  to  have  me  go  to  see  you,  and  tell  you  that  he  had 
a  friend  that  thought  a  good  deal  of  you — " 

Hugh  paused.  A  pair  of  glowing  eyes  were  flashing  full 
iipon  him,  and  the  sense  of  the  utter  meanness  of  his  posi 
tion  and  the  subterfuge  of  which  he  had  become  the  mouth 
piece,  with  a  consciousness  that^Mary  saw  and  detested 
both,  overcame  him  with  shame,  and  with  a  burning  face 
he  dropped  his  eyes,  while  his  tongue  refused  the  perform 
ance  of  its  office. 

Mary  rose  to  her  feet,  |hd,  giving  vent  to  her  exuberant 
contempt  by  a  vigorous  onset  with  the  tongs  upon  the  back 
log  of  the  fire,  she  turned  around  with  the  tongs  still  in  her 
hand,  and  exclaimed,  "  Peter  Trimble  is  a  fool !  A  spindle- 
shanked,  squash-headed  fool !  And  if  you  are  so  good  at 


262  THE     BAY     PATH. 

doing  errands,  I  wish  you  would  have  the  kindness  to  tell 
him  just  what  I  have  said;  and,  while  you  are  about  it,  tell 
him  that  if  he  sends  any  more  of  his  impudent  messages  to 
me,  I'll  slap  his  ugly  face  for  him." 

Having  said  this  writh  an  angrily  impulsive  utterance, 
Mary  gave  the  back  log  another  punch,  set  the  tongs  in 
the  corner,  and  looked  at  Hugh  in  silence. 

That  individual  was  dumbfoundered,  and  his  admiration  of 
the  woman  before  him  was  fast  dying  out,  when  her  counte 
nance  relaxed  from  its  harsh  expression,  and,  breaking  into 
a  low,  musical  laugh,  she  said,  "  Hugh  Parsons,  how  could 
you  let  that  poor  puppy  impose  upon  you  so  ?"  Then  she 
laughed  again,  and  bent  down  and  looked  into  Hugh's 
eyes — conscious  of  having  offended  his  sensibilities,  but  de 
termined  to  win  a  smile  of  forgiveness  before  another  step 
was  taken.  "  Did  I  scare  you  ?"  said  she,  resuming  her 
chair,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Well,  you  can't 
imagine  how  much  I  despise  that  Peter,  and  you  do  not 
know  what  reason  I  have  %>  hate  him.  He  has  no  memory, 
and  he  imagines  I  have  none.  It  made  me  mad  to  think 
he  should  suppose  it  possible  for  me  to  show  him  anything 
more  than  common  politeness,  and  madder  still  to  see  that 
he  made  you  a  pack-horse  of  his  impudence,  as  well  as  his 
lies." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would  offend  you,"  said  Hugh,  "  but  he 
seemed  to  feel  so  badly  about  it  that  I  couldn't  refuse 
him." 

"  Hush !  hush !  hush !"  exclaimed  Mary,  tapping  her 
finger  -upon  Hugh's  lip.  "  Doife  tell  me  any  more,  or 
you'll  make  me  mad  again  !" 

"  You  really  don't  wish  me  to  carry  the  message  to  him 
which  you  just  now  gave  me,"  said  Hugh,  deprecatingly. 

"  Oh,  no !"  replied  the  girl ;  "  I'll  tell  you  what  to  say  to 
him.  Say  that  I  have  given  my  heart  to  another,  and  that 
lie  must  forget  me,"  and  Mary  laughed  outright  at  the  idea 


THE     BAY     PATH.  263 

of  her  sending  such  a  message  to  such  a  man.  "  If  he  asks 
you  who  it  is,"  added  Mary,  "  tell  him  you  do  not  know, 
but  that  what  I  say  is  true." 

As  the  girl  closed,  Hugh  rose  to  his  feet,  his  errand  being 
finished,  and,  as  he  met  the  direct  gaze  of  her  marvellous 
eyes — bright  with  an  unwonted  excitement,  searching  for 
sympathy  down  into  the  very  depths  of  his  soul,  and  pour 
ing  out  upon  him  (as  he  felt)  an  influence  which,  though 
strange  to  him,  found  just  as  strange  a  response  within  him, 
he  trembled  in  every  fibre  of  his  frame — trembled  under 
a  power  all-pervading  in  its  effect,  prostrating  for  the  mo 
ment  his  will,  and  shaking  the  very  foundations  of  his  being. 

A  strange  feeling  crept  into  his  heart,  as  he  stood  there, 
looking  Mary  in  the  face — a  feeling  that  he  was  in  the 
shadow  of  a  nature  stronger  than  his  own — that  that  shadow 
was  his  home — that  he  was  not  in  will  and  purpose,  in 
thought  and  feeling,  in  strength  and  determination,  a  man. 
These  emotions  were  quickly  experienced,  and  those  more 
indefinite  and  confused  succeeded,  so  that  Mary's  h^Jifty 
grasp  at  parting,  and  his  promise  to  call  again,  and  tell 
her  how  Peter  received  her  message,  were  matters  that 
were  remembered  rather  than  realized. 

Hugh  found  himself  in  the  open  air,  in  a  state  of  mind 
bordering  upon  insanity.  Her  eyes  were  still  looking  into 
his,  her  laugh  still  rang  in  his  ears,  her  storm  of  contempt 
uous  passion  swept  wildly  through  his  memory,  and  every 
artery  was  throbbing  with  a,passion  as  new  as  it  was  deli 
cious.  His  heart,  with  a  yphfulness  which  he  could  not 
doubt,  had  told  him  thd^Rjret  of  her  own,  and  oh-!  how 
precious  was  that  secretj^Ke  longed  to  get  home — to  get 
into  his  room — to  lock  hW  door,  and  think  it  all  over — to 
surround  himself  with  it  as  a  cloud  in  which  he  might  bathe 
— to  drink  it  in  as  if  it  were  nectar — and  tremblingly  to 
open  the  door  that  stood  between  him  and  the  future,  and 
look  upon  the  charmed  land. 


264  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Perfectly  absorbed  in  his  new  thoughts,  he  had  proceeded 
but  a  short  distance  on  his  way  homewards  when  Peter 
stepped  forth  from  a  road-side  cover,  and  silently  joined 
his  startled  messenger. 

"  You  see,"  said  Peter,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  I  go  down 
there  pretty  much  every  night,  and  walk  by  the  house,  and, 
once  in  a  while,  I  get  a  squint  into  the  windows,  and  see 
her  washing  dishes  and  cutting  round  in  the  kitchen  ;  but, 
land  ahead !  I'd  no  more  idea  of  seeing  you  there  to-night 
— a  talking  with  her — I  didn't  s'pose  you'd  dare  to — I 
didn't,  'pon  my  word.  Says  I,  as  I  stood  out  there  a  peek 
ing  in,  Hugh  Parsons  is  the  greatest  feller  I  ever  see  in  my 
life — I  did  now — that's  jest  what  I  said,  word  for  word." 

Hugh  lifted  his  eyes  to  his  voluble  companion,  to  ascer 
tain  from  his  countenance,  if  possible,  in  the  dim  light, 
whether  he  had  in  any  measure  made  himself  acquainted 
with  the  result  of  his  visit.  He  was  interrupted  in  his  scru 
tiny,  and  relieved  in  his  apprehensions,  by  Peter  himself. 

"I  didn't  wait,"  continued  that  individual,  "to  hear  what 
she  had  to  say,  for  I  wasn't  ready  ;  but  I  jest  come  right 
out  under  the  cover  here,  and  got  myself  all  fixed  for  what 
ever  she  might  say.  It's  a  great  contrivance  now,  I  tell 
you,  and  you'll  say  so  jest  as  quick  as  you  come  to  see  it. 
Where  shall  we  go  ?'' 

"  We  will  go  to  my  room,"  said  Hugh. 

"Have  you  got  a  board  there,  or  anything  for  me  to 
make  a  few  chalk  marks  o$?"  inquired  Peter,  and  then  add 
ed,  "  never  mind  about  the  clji^k,  for  I  always  carry  that 
in  my  pocket.  Everybody  is  dfcwiting  chalk,  and  nobody 
has  it.  You  never  catch  me  \\ilhou1  chalk/' 

"  It  wouldn't  hurt  the  floor,  ^puld  it  ?"  inquired  Hugh. 

"  Hurting  the  floor  depends  upon  what  woman  makes  up 
the  bed.  It  wouldn't  do  to  chalk  the  floor  where  I  live. 
I've  tried  that,  and  I've  always  kept  a  loose  board  there 
ever  since.  Land  ahead !  what  a  row  that  was !"  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  265. 

Peter  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  the  memory  of  the  stirring 
occasion  to  which  he  alluded  swept  over  him. 

Hugh  replied  that  he  imagined  that  some  method  could 
be  devised  for  Peter's  accommodation  when  the  room  should 
be  reached,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence  until  they  arrived 
at  the  house. 

A  minute  sufficed  for  the  lighting  of  a  candle,  and  the 
two  proceeded  up  the  rough  stairway  to  Hugh's  room.  As 
Peter  followed  Hugh  up  the  steps,  he  became  possessed 
with  a  feeling  of  importance  that  he  had  never  before  ex 
perienced.  His  throat  swelled,  he  held  his  breath  with  an 
inflated  chest,  he  looked  down  upon  his  remarkable  legs 
with  utter  complacency,  and  said  to  and  within  himself, 
"  These  are  great  doings  !  This  pays  if  it  doesn't  amount 
to  anything.  It  takes  me  to  put  these  little  chaps  round, 
and  get  the  work  out  of  'em."  Peter  terminated  his  inte 
resting  soliloquy  by  a  grand  flourish  of  his  fists  at  Hugh's 
back,  as  he  entered  his  chamber,  and  a  kick  into  the  dark 
ness  he  had  left  behind  him,  both  of  which  demonstrations 
were  intended  as  an  expression  of  his  momentary  exaltation 
above  all  the  humanity  in  his  immediate  vicinity. 

Arriving  in  the  room,  both  of  the  young  men  sat  down, 
and  Peter  drew  forth  his  carefully  preserved  chalk.  "  Now," 
said  he,  "  I  s'pose  you  want  to  see  how  I'm  going  to  fix  it. 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  first  how  I  come  at  it.  She's  made  you 
one  of  two  answers.  It's  either  all  right,  or  all  wrong.  If 
it's  all  right,  there's  one  thing  for  me  to  do ;  if  it's  all  wrong, 
there's  another  thing.  You  see  that,  don't  you  ?" 

Hugh  assented. 

"  Well,  now  you  see  I'm  standing  right  in  the  crotch  of 
the  roads,  don't  you*?"  (and  Peter  made  chalk  marks  on 
the  floor  representing  a  road  branching  off  into  two  roads, 
the  whole  being  a  rude  representation  of  a  hay  fork.)  "  Up 
this  way,"  continued  Peter,  designating  the  left  hand  path, 
"  is  where  I  live.  Beyond  there  is  Deacon  Ohapin's  house, 

12 


266  THE     BAY     PATH. 

and  his  lot  that  he  offers  to  let  me  plant  next  year  to  halves, 
and  the  lot  that  I  shall  clear  on  the  commons.  There's 
women  on  the  road,  but  you  can't  see  'em  now,  and  there's 
a  pretty  little  house  that  isn't  built  that  I  own.  Enough 
said.  Now,  on  the  right  hand  road,  where  I've  been  want 
ing  to  go,  there's  Holyoke's  house,  and  Mary  Woodcock 
inside  of  it,  and  all  Woodcock's  land,  and  a  cabin  on  it,  and 
everything  all  right.  Now  you  see  I'm  at  the  crotch  of  the 
roads,  don't  you  ?" 

Hugh  assented  again. 

"  Now  I'm  bound  not  to  make  a  fuss,  any  way,  and  you 
see  if  Mary  turns  up  her  nose  to  me,  I  shall  take  the  left 
hand  road,  turn  my  back  upon  the  right,  and  make  believe 
I  never  see  it  in  my  life  ;  and  then  I  shall  take  the  deacon's 
lot  to  halves,  build  a  house  on  the  commons,  take  a  wife 
out  of  them  pretty  women  you  can't  see  now,  and  have  a 
great  time.  If  Mary  is  all  right,  I  shall  take  the  right  hand 
road,  walk  into  Holyoke's  house,  take  Mary  and  walk  out, 
fix  up  the  cabin  on  old  Woodcock's  land,  and  invite  in  my 
friends.  NOAV,  what  do  you  say  ?"  (inquired  Peter,  rising 
and  taking  his  position  upon  the  point  he  legitimately  occu 
pied  upon  his  diagram),  "  shall  I  take  the  right  hand  or  the 
left  ?» 

Hugh,  who,  though  still  under  the  excitement  induced 
by  his  interview  with  Mary,  could  not  avoid  being  exces 
sively  amused  with  the  measures  Peter  had  instituted  for 
the  preservation  of  his  equanimity,  replied  to  Peter's 
inquiry  with  a  freedom  he  had  not  anticipated — "The 
left." 

"  Forward,  march  !"  exclaimed  Peter,  stepping  off  in  the 
direction  indicated,  until' he  reached  the  wall,  where  he 
measured  time  upon  a  squeaking  pair  of  shoes  for  at  least 
a  minute,  with  a  neck  and  back  as  stiffly  set  as  if  they 
were  made  of  cast  iron.  Then  he  turned  briskly  round, 
and,  walking  back  to  where  Hugh  was  sitting,  said,  in  a 


THE     BAY    PATH.  267 

tone  of  curiosity  rather  than  of  apprehension,  "  Is  it  r'ally 
so,  Hugh  ?" 

Hugh  asserted  that  the  left  was  the  only  direction  he 
could  give  him. 

"  Well,  how  did  you  get  at  it,  Hugh,  any  way  ?  What 
did  she  say  ?  Tell  a  feller  all  about  it.  By  George !  you 
must  have  had  a  great  time  !" 

"  She  said,"  replied  Hugh,  with  a  strange  thrill  in  his 
brain,  "  that  she  had  given  her  heart  to  another,  and  that 
you  must  forget  her." 

"  Did  she  say  that,  though  ?  I  don't  know  what  you 
think  of  that,  Hugh,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  it  was  darn 
pretty.  How  was  it  ?  You  jest  say  that  again." 

"  That  she  had  given  her  heart  to  another,  and  that  you 
must  forget  her." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  continued  Peter,  his  lip  quivering,  and 
his  eyes  becoming  suffused,  "  as  if  that  was  jest  about  the 
prettiest  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life.  Don't  you  think 
so,  now,  r'ally  ?  By  George !"  exclaimed  the  enthusiastic 
young  man,  in  a  burst  of  admiration  that  was  accompanied 
by  a  slap  upon  Hugh's  back,  "  I  hope  she'll  do  well — I  do, 
'pon  my  word." 

"  Yes — I  hope  so,"  responded  Hugh. 

"  Anything  said — 'bout — p'ints  ?"  inquired  Peter,  turning 
his  eyes  upwards,  with  an  occasional  side  glance  at  Hugh, 
and  drawing  his  fingers  slowly  down  over  his  face. 

"  Nothing  that  I  shall  tell  youf  replied  Hugh  with  a 
smile. 

"  She  didn't  though,  did  she,  Hugh  ?"  said  Peter,  burst 
ing  into  a  snicker.  "  Well,  I  hope  she'll  do  well — I  do, 
'pon  my  word,  if  it  was  the  last  thing  I  had  to  say.  I  hope 
she'll  do  first-rate.  Hugh,  you  get  oft*  that  word  she  sent 
to  me  again.  I  can't  seem  to  hold  on  to  it." 

"  That  she  had  given  her  heart  to  another,  and  that  you 
must  forget  her." 


268  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,  Hugh,"  said  Peter, 
"  but  that  pays  me.  I  tell  you,  it's  something  to  get  such 
a  word  as  that  from  a  girl.  It's  about  as  good  as  marrying 
her.  Jest  think  how  it  sounds !  By  George  !  I've  no 
reason  to  complain — now  that's  a  fact.  I  r'ally  hope  she'll 
do  well." 

Hugh  was  about  expressing  his  gratification  that  Peter 
had  borne  his  disappointment  so  well,  when  the  latter  rose 
to  take  his  leave. 

"  If  you'll  jest  whip  them  chalk  marks,"  said  Peter, 
looking  considerately  down  upon  the  diagram  of  his  life, 
"  they'll  come  out,  but  if  you  rub  'em,  you'll  only  rub  'em 
in.  When  you've  used  chalk  as  much  as  I  have  you'll  know 
without  being  told." 

Peter  looked  round  the  room,  and  finding  no  more  to 
say,  turned  and  walked  down  stairs,  Hugh  following  him, 
and  seeing  him  safely  landed  in  the  street. 

On  arriving  in  the  open  air,  he  pulled  his  coat  collar  up 
about  his  ears,  and  burying  his  face  in  it  as  far  as  possible, 
whispered  and  chuckled,  and  shook  his  fists  all  the  way 
home. " 

Hugh  was  alone  at  last,  and,  hastily  undressing,  he  com 
mitted- himself  to  his  bed.  In  an  instant,  the  face  and  form 
of  Mary  Woodcock  were  before  him.  He  transported  him 
self  in  imagination  back  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  had 
his  interview  with  her,  recalled  every  word  she  uttered  and 
every  look  she  gave  him,  and  feasted  his  memory  upon 
what  he  had  suddenly  discovered  to  be  her  wonderful 
beauty.  She  filled  his  heart  and  head  full.  He  felt  that  he 
had  given  himself  to  her,  and  that  only  in  her  possession 
could  he  thenceforth  be  happy.  His  head  grew  feverish 
with  excitement,  and  he  tossed  upon  his  bed  for  hours  with 
out  sleep,  dwelling  upon  and  recalling  constantly  the  same 
images,  the  same  Avords,  and  the  same  wonderful  emotions. 

In  his  first  dream,  Mary's  eyes  were  looking  with  their 


THE     BAY     PATH.  269 

wonted  fascination  into  his  own — her  hand  was  upon  his 
arm — warm,  electrical,  subduing.  A  deep  sense  of  harmony 
and  happiness  played  about  his  heart — and  yet,  he  felt  his 
whole  nature  yearning  for  something  unpossessed — some 
thing  without  hirn,  yet  supremely  necessary  to  him. 

And  Hugh  was  not  alone  in  his  restlessness  and  dreams 
that  night.  Mary  was  exultant.  She  had  hardly  a  doubt 
after  Hugh  retired  that  she  should  conquer  him,  and  win 
hirn  to  herself;  and  this  she  determined  to  do  in  spite  of 
any  opposition  that  might  interpose.  She  would  walk  bare 
foot  to  the  Bay — nay,  she  would  walk  the  world  over — 
through* danger  and  darkness  and  despair,  before  she  would 
relinquish  her  design  to  make  him  her  own.  Her  heart 
brimmed  with  the  most  perfect  tenderness  toAvards  him — it 
overflowed  in  gushing  words,  softly  whispered  to  her  pillow 
— words  of  endearment — words  that  were  caresses — words 
of  gentlest  idolatry. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

came  to  both,  and  it  was  morning  in  a  new 
world.  They  had  been  translated  in  their  relations,  and 
everything  had  a  new  value  and  a  new  significance.  With 
Mary,  life  had  resolved  itself  into  an  invincible  purpose. 
She  knew  that  she  should  have  opposition  from  her  best 
friends  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  wishes,  but  she  deter 
mined  to  burst  through  it  all.  She  knew  that  she  should  be 
met  with  jeers  on  every  hand  from  her  acquaintances,  for 
choosing  so  insignificant  a  husband.  She  knew  also  that 
Hugh  would  be  pitied  as  if  he  were  a  boy  in  the  claws  of  a 
tigress ;  and  yet  these  facts  were  no  more  than  straws 
beneath  the  feet  of  her  determination. 

Hugh  was  possessed  by  a  very  different  spirit — a  spirit 
of  helplessness — of  fear  of  Mary's  power  over  him — of  sor 
row  that  so  many  thought  and  spoke  evil  of  her — and  yet  a 
spirit  smitten  through  by  a  fascination  that  exalted  its 
author  to  the  pinnacle  of  feminine  power,  grace,  and  glory. 

All  day  long,  Hugh  walked  about  his  business  as  if  in  a 
dream,  and  when  night  came  on,  he  found  himself  moving 
in  the  direction  of  Holyoke's  house.  The  longing  to  see 
her  face,  to  listen  to  her  voice,  and  to  feel  the  influence  of 
her  magnetic  eyes  was  irresistible.  As  he  approached  the 
house,  he  saw  a  dark  object,  closely  wrapped,  leaning  upon 
the  garden  gate  ;  and  when  he  had  arrived  sufficiently  near, 
a  low,  firm  voice  said,  "  I  knew  you  would  come — I  knew 
you  would  come."  These  words  were  uttered  in  such  a 
tone  of  conscious  power,  that  Hugh  felt  that  sell  control 
was  not  possible  in  her  presence. 


THE     BAY     PAT/H.  ,  271 

"  You  will  take  a  short  walk  with  me  to-night,  will  you 
not  ?"  said  Mary,  in  the  same  confident  tone. 

"  Certainly,''  responded  Hugh. 

"  Oh !  I  knew  you  would,''  said  Mary,  as  she  passed  out 
of  the  gate. 

Hugh  did  not  offer  her  his  arm — he  did  not  even  think  he 
had  an  arm  to  offer,  but  she  moved  to  his  side,  and  took  it 
within  both  her  own,  and  drawing  it  to  her,  carried  her 
face  so  near  his  that  he  could  feel  her  breath,  and  ex 
claimed,  "  You  cannot  tell  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  this 
evening."  But  Hugh  could  say  nothing.  He  walked  along 
as  if  he  were  a  culprit,  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  his  worth- 
lessness,  his  awkwardness,  and  ignorance,  wondering  what 
Mary  could  find  in  him  to  admire  ;  and,  for  the  moment, 
feeling  that  he  had  neither  part  nor  lot  in  the  strange  inti 
macy  she  had  assumed. 

"  Hugh,"  said  Mary,  and  the  word  thrilled  him  as  if  it 
were  a  breath  of  music,  "  Hugh,  I  have  long  had  something 
to  tell  you,  and  you  must  let  me  tell  it  to  you  to-night. 
We  will  walk  out  to  the  old  cabin,  and  there  we  can  be  out 
of  the  way,  and  say  what  we  choose." 

Hugh  understood  what  was  meant  by  the  old  cabin. 
It  was  the  building  formerly  owned  by  John  Woodcock, 
which  had  occasionally  been  repaired  and  temporarily  occu 
pied  by  immigrants,  while  providing  themselves  with  a  shel 
ter  upon  their  own  lots.  The  mention  of  it  filled  him  with 
fear,  for  there  were  stories  told  concerning  that  lonely  old 
shelter — of  lights  having  been  seen  in  it  at  midnight — of 
ashes  upon  the  hearth  left  by  fires  which  no  one  had  kindled, 
and  of  confused  voices  heard  by  distant  watchers — and  the 
association  of  Mary,  in  her  tainted  reputation,  with  the 
building  was  such  as,  for  a  moment,  almost  to  impel  him  to 
break  from  her  side  and  flee.  But  he  could  not  have  done 
it  if  he  would,  and  the  impulse  soon  subsided. 

They  passed  several  houses  in   silence,  and  at  last   ap- 


272  THE     BAY     PATH. 

preached  the  cabin.  The  door  of  the  old  structure  was 
closed,  and  knowing  that  it  was  quite  as  cold  and  cheerless 
within  as  it  was  outside,  they  took  a  seat  upon  a  rough 
bench  at  the  door.  Mary  hardly  knew  how  to  broach  the 
subject 'of  her  thoughts,  and  the  object  of  the  interview. 
At  last,  summoning  her  resolution,  she  said,  "  Hugh — I 
want  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  you  must  answer  it.  I 
want  to  know  whether,  if  you  loved  such  a  girl  as  I  am, 
you  would  dare  to  go  independently  to  her  and  tell  her 
of  it." 

Hugh  shook  his  head,  but  uttered  not  a  word. 

"  I  thought  so,"  responded  Mary,  "  and  now  if  you  should 
love  such  a  girl  as  I  am,  and  such  a  girl  as  I  am  should  love 
you,  how  would  the  two  find  it  out  unless  the  girl  should 
tell  you  ?" 

Hugh  felt  that  his  proper  answer  to  both  these  questions 
involved  his  shame,  and  so,  still  speechless,  he  shook  his 
head  again. 

"  I  know  that  the  people  would  not  think  it  right  for  a 
girl  like  me  to  tell  a  man  like  you  that  she  loved  him,  but  I 
don't  care  anything  about  that,  and  I've  come  out  here  to 
night  with  you,  Hugh,  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you  better 
than  anybody  and  everybody  else  in  all  the  world.  Nobody 
living  can  love  you  as  I  do — I  know  it — I  know  it  just  as 
well  as  I  know  that  I  live." 

Mary  paused  in  her  passionate  utterance,  and,  slowly 
passing  her  arm  around  Hugh,  continued :  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  if  you  were  mine,  and  I  could  live  with  you  always,  I 
should  be  perfectly — perfectly  happy.  I  don't  care  what 
people  say — I  don't  care  what  they  do.  If  I  could  live  here, 
away  from  them,  in  this  cabin,  where  we  could  be  all  by 
ourselves,  and  where  I  could  work  out-doors  and  in-cloors,  I 
shouldn't  care  whether  you  worked  or  not — I  should  rather 
you  wouldn't  work,  for  you  ain't  made  for  this  rough  coun 
try.  I  could  take  care  of  you — I  could  nurse  you  when  you 


THE     BAY     PATH.  273 

are  sick,  and  do  everything  for  you  when  you  are  well,  and 
I  should  rather  work  for  you  tnan  for  myself  any  time  and 
all  the  time.  Oh,  Hugh !"  (and  Mary's  voice  sank  to  a  low, 
tender  tone)  "how  happy — happy — happy  I  should  be! 
How  happy  I  should  be !" 

As  she  closed  her  impassioned  declaration,  she  drew 
Hugh  to  her  heart,  and  there,  his  sensitive  frame  wrought 
into  the  most  painful  nervous  frenzy,  he  shook  and  shivered 
as  if  a  subtle  poison  were  creeping  through  his  veins,  or  a 
miasmatic  blast  had  smitten  him  with  a  fever.  .He  could 
say  nothing.  He  could  only  sigh  convulsively.  He  knew 
that  Mary's  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he  felt  that,  if  he 
should  lift  his  own  to  them,  he  should  fall  to  weak  and 
womanish  tears,  or  be  guilty  of  some  drivelling  silliness 
that  would  disgrace  him  in  her  eyes  for  ever. 

"  Can  you  not  love  me  ?"  said  Mary,  tenderly  kissing  his 
forehead  as  it  lay  upon  her  shoulder.  "  Can  you  not  love 
ine  ?  Can  you  not  be  mine — all  mine — always  mine  ?" 

Hugh  pressed  her  hand,  and  there,  in  the  cold  night  air, 
for  a  good  half  hour,  the  lovers  sat,  wrapped  in  a  feverish 
sense  of  happiness,  so  wild,  and  vague,  and  nebulous,  that 
one  proper  word  uttered  in  the  midst  of  it  might  have  crys 
tallized  the  whole  into  something  definitely  and  permanently 
good,  while  an  improper  one  might  have  broken  it  into 
eddies  that  would  have  drowned  heart  and  brain  in  forget- 
fulness  and  madness.  But  no  word  was  spoken,  and  the 
spell  was  broken  at  last  by  a  slight  noise  within  the  cabin, 
followed  by  a  half  whispered  exclamation,  which,  in  the  ears 
of  both  the  lovers,  shaped  itself  to  the  words  "  O  God!" 

Hugh  was  nearly  overcome  with  fright,  while  Mary,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  brief  love  history,  was  stricken  with  a 
sense  of  guilt.  She  could  pour  out  her  soul  to  Hugh,  she 
could  woo  him  and  win  him,  without  the  sense  of  shame.  In 
his  presence,  alone,  she  felt  that  she  was  sacrificing  none  of 
the  proprieties  of  her  sex  by  telling  him  her  love  and  suing 

12* 


274  THE     BAT     PATH. 

for  his  hand,  but  the  thought  that  other  ears  had  heard  her 
seemed  to  inform  her  action  with  new  qualities;  and,  as 
both  started  hurriedly  away  from  the  spot,  she  drew  her 
arms  under  her  shawl,  and  hung  her  head  in  silence.  Half 
the  distance  of  return  had  been  accomplished,  when  Mary 
burst  forth  with,  "  I  don't  care  anything  about  it.  It  is  no 
one's  business  but  yours  and  mine,  Hugh.  Do  not  walk  so 
fast." 

The  remainder  of  the  walk  home  was  occupied  in  a  low 
and  busy  conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  future.  Mary 
told  Hugh  of  the  land  left  to  her  by  her  father,  of  the 
money  she  had  received  from  the  same  source  (though  she 
did  not  tell  him  by  what  agency  the  latter  came),  of  the 
difficulty  she  should  have  of  carrying  out  her  plan  to  marry 
him,  and  explained  to  him  the  origin  of  the  stories  which 
he  had  heard  about  he.r.  And  Hugh,  as  he  became  con 
vinced  that  she  had  been  wronged,  and  that  she  was  really 
honest-hearted  and  guiltless,  felt  himself  attached  to  her  by 
a  new  and  nobler  sympathy,  that  did  much  to  fix  his  deter 
mination,  assure  his  judgment,  and  give  body,  form,  and 
spirit  to  his  affection.  When  they  parted,  each  was  calm, 
and  each  felt  assured  of  the  strength  of  the  mutual  .tie. 

Only  a  few  weeks  passed  away  before  it  was  known  that 
Hugh  and  Mary  were  betrothed  to  each  other,  and  such  a 
commotion  as  it  produced  in  the  settlement  had  never  pre 
viously  been  experienced.  The  first  declaration  made  by 
each  man  and  woman,  as  the  news  was  told,  was  that 
"Mary  did  all  the  courting."  It  was  singular  that  so  just 
a  suspicion  should  have  been  so  universal,  but  none  were 
found  to  dispute  it.  It  was  a  natural  deduction  from  their 
relative  constitutions  and  characters.  Everybody  felt  it  to 
be  a  bad  match. 

Mary  had  anticipated  all  the  opposition  to  her  plans 
which  she  actually  experienced,  and  all  the  abuse  of  which 
she  was  the  subject.  Against  all  this  she  had  steeled  her- 


THE     BAY     PATH.  275 

self,  and  carried  a  calm,  brave,  and  determined  face 
wherever  she  went,  or  in  whatsoever  company  she  found 
herself.  Only  in  Mary  Holyoke's  kind  presence  had  she 
melted,  and  confessed  the  means  she  had  taken  to  gain 
Hugh's  affection  and  his  promise  of  marriage.  But  there 
she  received  no  reproaches.  She  heard  fears  expressed — 
fears  springing  from  genuine  Christian  love — and  she  drank 
in  gentle  counsels  that  were  dictated  by  a  heart  that  real 
ized  the  full  preciousness  of  human  affection  ;  and  she  found 
one  who  looked  upon  the  match  more  than  charitably — 
pleasantly — even  hopefully. 

On  the  day  when  the  intentions  of  marriage  between  the 
two  were  published,  Peter  Trimble  took  occasion,  as  the 
audience  was  dismissed,  to  tell  Hugh  that  he  had  done  a 
neat  thing.  "I  tell  you,"  said  Peter,  "it  was  just  exactly 
as  I  should  have  done  if  I'd  been  in  your  place.  Yes,  sir — 
if  you'd  sent  me,  as  I  did  you,  I  should  'a  nabbed  her  as 
true  as  guns,  and  you  might  have  whistled.  Yes,  sir,  you 
did  that  well." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

HITHERTO  the  office  of  the  Bay  Path  had  been  one  of 
peace.  It  had  been  worn  by  weary  but  hopeful  feet  in  the 
service  of  commerce  and  friendship,  and  by  the  migrations 
incident  to  a  new  territory ;  but  the  hour  was  approaching 
when  new  and  more  stirring  influences  should  pass  over  its 
track,  fraught  with  great  changes  to  the  plantation  which  it 
connected  with  the  Bay. 

While  Mr.  Pynchon  was  in  attendance  at  the  October 
term  of  the  General  Court,  in  1649,  the  book  with  which 
the  reader  has  become  imperfectly  acquainted,  through 
Deacon  Chapin's  interview  with  Mr.  Moxon,  arrived  in  a 
vessel  from  London,  and  the  author,  with  many  misgivings 
concerning  the  result,  but  with  a  determination  conscien 
tiously  to  risk  it,  and  bi'avely  to  abide  by  it,  committed  it 
to  the  public. 

Saying  nothing  to  anyone  of  his  proceeding,  and  leaving 
his  book  to  its  fate,  and  to  its  influence  upon  his  own,  he 
preserved,  day  by  day,  his  quiet  dignity  in  his  seat  among 
the  magistrates,  and  performed  his  duties.  A  few  days 
passed  away  before  he  was  made  aware  in  any  manner 
that  his  book  had  arrested  the  public  eye,  but  the  cool 
greetings  and  the  altered  manners  of  those  about  him,  and 
those  whom  he  met  in  the  streets,  soon  betrayed  the  depth 
of  the  unfavorable  impression  which  it  had  made.  At  the 
meeting-house,  upon  the  Sabbath,  he  was  reminded  of  the 
errors  which  he  had  promulgated,  in  the  minister's  prayer ; 
and  half  unconsciously  looking  around,  he  saw  several  wor 
shipful  and  worshipping  gentlemen  gazing  over  their  noses 


THE     BAY     PATH.  277 

at  him.  At  length,  the  state  of  public  feeling  became  so 
intense  that  the  bounds  of  politeness  were  fairly  broken 
over,  and  one  or  two  of  his  old  friends  visited  him  person 
ally  with  severe  reproaches.  As  no  direct  action  had  been 
instituted  against  him  by  church  or  state,  and  as  he  found 
his  position  comfortless,  he  thought  that  the  best  policy  for 
him  would  be  to  relieve  the  town  of  his  presence,  and 
return  home — thus  giving  to  all  time  to  consider  his  work 
more  calmly,  and  allowing  opportunity  for  the  subsiding  of 
the  storm.  Accordingly,  he  asked  for  leave  of  absence 
from  the  Court — a  request  which  was  readily  granted — 
and,  with  two  or  three  friends,  commenced  his  journey 
homewards. 

In  the  meantime,  half-a-dozen  members  of  the  plantation 
had  been  in  Boston,  and  thus  became  acquainted  with  the 
position  of  affairs  relative  to  their  magistrate.  They  had 
seen  him,  and  had  returned  home  with  his  assurance  that  he 
should  soon  follow  them.  Wherever  they  had  made  their 
appearance  among  the  Bay  settlements,  the  subject  of  the 
heretical  book  was  brought  up,  and  they  found  the  man 
whom  they  had  for  years  loved  and  revered  notorious  to 
an  offensive  degree.  They  returned  to  the  plantation  much 
excited,  and  full  of  indignation,  towards  those  who  were 
thus  insulting  the  person  and  maligning  the  reputation  of 
their  friend  and  counsellor,  and  but  a  few  hours  were  neces 
sary  to  diffuse  their  news  and  their  excitement  throughout 
the  plantation. 

In  Mr.  Pynchon's  family,  there  was  much  distress ;  for 
what  the  men  had  related  on  their  return,  was  fully  con 
firmed  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Pynchon  himself.  John  felt 
every  indignity  offered  to  his  father  as  a  personal  offence, 
and  could  hardly  be  dissuaded  from  starting  immediately 
for  the  Bay,  to  take  his  place  by  his  side,  and  resent  all  the 
insults  offered  him.  Mary  Holyoke  was  very  deeply  affect 
ed.  The  love  which  she  had  always  borne  her  father,  her 


THE     BAT     PATH. 

confidence  in  his  thorough  Christian  principle,  her  know 
ledge  of  his  deep  conscientiousness,  and  her  insight  into  his 
delicate  pride  and  sensitiveness  of  character,  all  tended  to 
swell  the  sympathy  with  which  she  regarded  him,  and  which 
not  only  filled  all  her  waking  thoughts,  but  destroyed  her 
sleep  through  many  feverish  nights. 

Poor  Mrs.  Pynchon,  in  her  plodding  old  age,  and  in  the 
profundity  of  respect  which  she  entertained  for  her  hus 
band,  would  not  at  first  believe  a  word  of  what  was  told 
her.  She  could  not  imagine  it  possible  for  William  Pynchon 
to  be  treated  anywhere  or  by  anybody  with  disrespect. 
His  letter  was  read  to  her,  but  she  "  could  not  see  into  it," 
and  shook  her  head  so  long  and  so  determinedly  that  all 
attempts  to  impress  upon  her  the  nature  and  extent  of  the 
difficulty  were  abandoned. 

At  the  close  of  the  lecture  on  Wednesday  succeeding  the 
announcement  of  Mr.  Pynchon's  aifficulties  to  the  settle 
ment,  all  the  men  remained  within  the  meeting-house,  while 
their  wives  and  families  mostly  followed  their  example. 
These  difficulties  were,  of  course,  the  topic  of  discussion, 
and  each  of  the  news-bringers  was  surrounded  by  his  little 
knot  of  auditors,  replying  to  a  multitude  of  questions,  and 
retailing  the  particulars  he  had  gathered  to  very  attentive 
ears. 

Conversation  had  progressed  but  a  few  minutes,  when 
three  or  four  horsemen  cantered  up  to  the  door  of  the 
meeting-house,  and,  dropping  tfieir  bridles,  leaped  from 
their  saddles,  and  entered.  Ttfehty  individuals  caught 
sight  of  the  first  intruder,  who  was  no  other  than  Mr. 
Pynchon  himself,  in  his  rusty  travelling  gear.  A  cordial 
smile  illuminated  his  face  as  he  contemplated  the  assembly, 
which  remained  silent  and  motionless  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  by  a  common  impulse,  turned  to  greet  him.  "Three 
cheers  for  Mr.  Pynchon !"  shouted  one,  leaping  to  a  seat ; 
and  they  were  given  with  a  will.  "  Three  more  !"  shouted 


THE     BAY     PATH.  2*79 

Peter  Trimblt  from  another  part  of  the  house,  swinging  his 
hat  high  in  the  air ;  but  as  he  became  immediately  con 
vinced  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  he  settled  into  a  profound 
snicker  that  carried  him  nearly  to  the  floor,  and  excluded 
all  attempt  on  his  part  to  answer  to  the  call. 

Mr.  Pynchon  was  at  first  greatly  surprised  to  meet  with 
such  a  demonstration  in  the  house  of  worship,  but  he  was 
surrounded  immediately  by  his  family  and  more  intimate 
friends,  who  explained  the  cause  of  the  convocation,  and  of 
the  explosion  of  enthusiasm  which  he  had  witnessed.  The 
old  man's  lip  trembled,  and  his  eye  moistened  with  emotion 
as  he  asked  for  silence,  and  thanked  the  assembly  for  their 
confidence  and  sympathy.  As  they  passed  out  of  the  house, 
on  that  mild  autumn  afternoon,  and  took  their  way  home 
wards,  in  a  glow  of  happy  excitement,  Mr.  Pynchon  re 
garded  them  all  with  an  afiection  he  had  never  before 
experienced,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  that  he 
was  once  more  among  hearts  that  loved  him. 

As  the  people  divided  into  little  parties  on  their  way 
homewards,  there  was  one  group  besides  that  immediately 
around  Mr.  Pynchon,  which  excited  considerable  attention 
and  comment.  It  was  composed  of  Hugh  Parsons,  Mary 
Woodcock,  and  no  less  an  individual  than  Peter  Trimble. 
The  face  of  the  latter  had  taken  on  the  aspect  of  an  aggra 
vated  case  of  the  small-pox,  while  his  legs,  judging  from 
the  manner  in  which  they  managed  themselves,  labored 
each  under  intense  personal  embarrassment.  He  had  hap 
pened  to  be  near  to  HiT^a  and  Mary  as  they  left  the  meet 
ing-house,  and,  being  hailed  by  the  former,  joined  them  in 
their  walk. 

"  You  are  jest  the  man  I  wanted  to  see,"  said  Peter. 
"  When  you  get  ready"  (and  Peter  looked  at  Mary),  "  I 
should  like  to  see  you  alone  about  three  minutes." 

"  What  secret  have  you  got  for  Hugh,  now  ?"  inquired 
Mary  good-humoredly. 


280  1HE     BAT     PATH. 

"  We've  had  considerable  between  us,  first  and  last,  hav'n't 
we,  Hugh  ?"  said  Peter. 

Hugh  replied  that  he  rather  thought  they  had. 

"  I  guess,"  continued  Peter,  "  some  folks  don't  know  how 
some  folks  happened  to  get  hold  of  some  folks ;"  and  then 
he  burst  into  a  snicker  that  he  found  it  impossible  to  termi 
nate  without  reaching  across  the  walk,  behind  Mary,  and 
giving  Hugh  a  sly  kick. 

Mary  understood  the  allusion,  for  she  had  long  previously 
heard  the  whole  story,  and  she  joined  Hugh  in  a  laugh  so 
merry  as  to  attract  attention  from  a  considerable  distance. 

"  Peter,"  said  Mary,  "  why  didn't  you  make  a  speech  to 
day  ?" 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Peter,  excitedly,  "that's  jest 
what  I  wanted  to  do  ;  and,  between  you  and  I,  that's  what 
I  want  to  see  Hugh  about.  Mr.  Pynchon  wouldn't  hear 
anything  to  me,  but  perhaps  he  would  to  Hugh  ;  and  I 
want  to  put  him  on  the  track  of  something  that'll  stick 
them  Bay  fellows  where  they  wont  hear  from  their  friends 
over  and  above  often.  Land  ahead  !  If  I  was  in  his  place, 
I  could  fix  'em  all  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours.  It's  so, 
now ;  you  needn't  laugh." 

"  But  can  you  not  inform  both  of  us  ?"  inquired  Mary, 
assuming  a  sober  face. 

Peter  shook  his  head.  That  was  not  the  way  in  which  he 
was  accustomed  to  deal.  It  was  too  public — there  was 
nothing  sly  about  it. 

At  last,  the  singularly  composed  trio  arrived  at  the  house 
of  Holyoke,  and  Mary  released  her  lover  to  Peter,  who  led 
him  behind  a  huge  tree,  a  short  distance  off,  and  there 
unveiled  his  plan  for  the  relief  of  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  You  see,"  said  Peter,  "  I've  got  a  plan.  I  didn't  want 
to  tell  it  to  the  oj,her  fellers,  for  they're  always  laughing  at 
me  ;  but  you  can  tell  Mr.  Pynchon,  or  somebody  else  that 
will  tell  him.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  wind-gun  ?" 


THE     BAY     PATH.  281 

Hugh  thought  he  had  heard  such  an  article  of  warfare 
mentioned. 

"  It  goes  by  wind,  you  see,"  continued  Peter ;  "  and  it'll . 
plug  a  bullet  right  into  a  man,  and  never  make  a  bit  of 
noise.  A  feller's  alive  one  second  and  dead  the  next,  and 
nobody  knows  what  hurts  him.  Well,  if  I  was  in  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon's  place,  I'd  get  a  short  wind-gun,  and  have  it  fastened 
under  my  arm,  and  just  cover  up  the  whole  concern  with 
a  cloak  ;  and  then  I'd  have  a  string  run  down  my  coat 
sleeve  from  the  thing  that  pulls  it  off,  and  when  one  of  these 
fellers  comes  up  and  says,  '  Mr.  Pynchon — that's  a  misera 
ble  book  of  your'n — you  ought  to  be  taken  in  hand  for 
writing  it,'  I  should  jest  look  him  in  the  eye,  and  pull  the 
string,  and  slap  goes  the  man  right  down  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  all  curled  up  as  if  he  was  full  of  choke  cherries. 
When  the  next  feller  comes  along  with  his  sass,  pull  the 
string  again,  down  he  goes,  and  so  on.  By  the  time  I'd 
laid  out  about  half-a-dozen  that  way,  they'd  begin  to  think 
that  apoplexy  was  catching,  and  that  it  wasn't  exactly  safe 
to  be  minding  other  people's  business.  Land  ahead !  I 
should  jest  like  to  be  William  Pynchon  for  about  three  days. 
I'd  be  dangerous  now — you'd  better  believe  I  would,  if  I 
was  to  be  strung  up  for  it." 

Hugh  was  not  at  all  certain  of  the  soundness  of  this 
scheme,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  to  say  nothing  of  its  moral 
ity  ;  while  his  faith  in  wind-guns  was  not  such  as  to  make 
the  enterprise  look  practicable  ;  but  he  nodded  as  Peter 
said,  "  You  think  of  this" — and  parted  with  that  modest 
and  ingenious  young  man,  to  forget  his  injunction  and  think 
about  Mary. 

The  return  of  Mr.  Pynchon  was  an  event  which  had,  for 
several  weeks,  been  associated  in  his  mind,  and  in  that  of 
Mary  Woodcock,  with  their  marriage  ;  and  that  was  the 
subject  of  their  first  thought  as  the  magistrate  made  his 
appearance  at  the  meeting-house  door.  Hugh,  therefore, 


282  THE     BAT     PATH. 

only  went  home  to  return  to  the  house  of  Holyoke  in  the 
evening,  where  the  intentions  and  prospects  of  the  lovers 
were  made  the  subject  of  family  conversation  during  his 
call.  Mr.  Holyoke  and  his  wife  kindly  lent  their  counsel  to 
the  lovers,  and  promised  to  lend  them  their  interest  and  aid. 

It  was  concluded  that  the  marriage  should  be  celebrated 
BO  soon  as  the  cabin  could  be  put  in  complete  order  for  the 
winter,  and  sufficient  stores  of  wood  and  corn  procured,  or 
rendered  certain  of  procurement.  Mary  Holyoke  promised 
to  speak  of  the  matter  to  her  father,  and  obtain  his  approval 
of  the  match  and  the  arrangements  for  the  consummation 
of  the  marriage. 

The  feeling  towards  the  lovers  among  the  young  men  of 
the  plantation  had  become  softened  by  the  passage  of  a 
few  weeks,  and,  through  Mary  Holyoke,  John  Pynchon  had 
become  much  interested  in  them.  After  a  consultation  with 
Holyoke,  he  proposed  to  the  young  men  of  his  own  age  to 
do  something  in  the  way  of  assisting  Hugh  and  Mary  in  the 
commencement  of  their  housekeeping. 

Accordingly,  upon  a  morning  appointed,  Woodcock's  old 
cabin  was  invaded  by  a  busy  host,  who  in  the  course  of  the 
day  changed  the  humble  structure  from  a  mere  shell  to  a 
tenantable  dwelling.  They  were  on  the  roof  and  under 
the  roof — at  the  door  and  at  the  windows — topping  out  the 
chimney  and  closing  up  the  walls — and  a  very  merry  and 
noisy  set  they  were.  At  last,  they  built  a  huge  fire  within, 
and  collected  for  consultation.  John  proposed  that  they 
should  appoint  a  day  to  draw  to  the  door  a  winter's  stock 
of  fuel.  Peter  Trimble  insisted  that  it  should  be  done  some 
moonlight  night,  so  as  to  take  Hugh  and  Mary  by  surprise. 
He  even  went  further,  and  expressed  his  opinion  that  if 
they  could  so  dispose  of  the  wood  as  to  fence  in  the  cabin, 
it  would  be  one  of  the  finest  jokes  ever  perpetrated.  But 
Peter  was  overruled  by  the  majority,  and  the  wood  made 
its  appearance  at  the  time  and  in  the  mode  appointed. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  283 

Mary  found  the  stores  of  money  and  wampum  which  she 
had  received  from  her  father  greatly  convenient  in  her 
arrangements,  and,  between  those  and  the  generous  pre 
sents  of  Holyoke  and  his  wife,  she  was  able  to  supply 
herself  with  very  respectable  housekeeping  articles  and 
furniture,  and  a  trousseau  quite  up  to,  if  not  a  little  be 
yond,  the  Puritan  standard.  She  managed  everything, 
attended  to  everything,  did  everything.  Night  after  night 
Hugh  went  to  see  her,  and  ask  her  about  her  progress.  It 
did  not  seem  to  him  that  it  was  an  affair  with  which  he 
had,  actively,  anything  to  do.  The  house  had  been  put  in 
order  for  him,  his  wood  lay  a,t  the  door  ready  for  his  axe, 
and,  living  within  the  charmed  and  charming  circle  of  his 
all-absorbing  passion,  he  seemed  to  feel  as  if  miracles  were 
to  be  wrought  for  his  benefit,  and  that  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  receive  them. 

All  this — strangely  as  it  may  seem — pleased  Mary  well. 
She  loved  him  for  his  helplessness — his  amiable  placidity, 
and  above  all  for  his  implicit  faith  in,  and  entire  reliance 
upon,  her.  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life  as 
when,  all  day  long  and  half  the  night,  she  labored  cease 
lessly  and  tirelessly  to  prepare  for  an  event  which  seemed 
to  her  to  be  so  fraught  with  bliss  that  whole  years  of  misery 
would  purchase  it  cheaply.  The  vision  of  the  retired  cabin 
with  its  blazing  fire,  its  inviolable  secresy,  its  independence, 
and  the  amiable  treasure  which  she  was  soon  to  make  her 
own  and  to  instal  there,  was  constantly  before  her. 

The  day  appointed  for  the  wedding  at  last  arrived,  and 
in  the  morning  Hugh  and  Mary  walked  down  to  the  cabin, 
to  see  to  some  of  the  closing  preparations.  The  stock  of 
provisions  which  Hugh  had  been  able  to  procure  had  al 
ready  been  deposited  there,  and  everything  was  nearly 
ready  for  immediate  occupation.  They  kindled  a  fire,  in 
the  huge  fireplace,  and  sat  down,  Mary  talking  all  the  time, 
and  telling  what  changes  she  should  make,  so  soon  as  she 


284  THE     BAY     PATH. 

should  become  settled  in  housekeeping,  and  giving  expres 
sion  to  her  delight  with  the  arrangements  around  her,  and 
the  prospect  before  her. 

The  pair  were  sitting  thus  when  the  door  was  opened, 
and  a  tall  Indian  walked  in,  unbidden,  carrying  upon  his 
back  a  basket  filled  with  corn.  He  was  followed  by  another 
and  another,  until  the  room  was  filled  with  Indians,  each 
of  whom  relieved  himself  of  a  burden,  and  stood  in  silence, 
as  if  awaiting  the  orders  of  a  chief. 

When  all  had  arrived  and  deposited  their  freight,  a 
somewhat  clumsy  and  singularly  painted  old  man  waved 
his  hand,  and  the  company  turned  and  retired  in  silence  as 
they  came.  Mary  and  Hugh  were  dumb  with  surprise  and 
astonishment.  The  former  looked  at  the  superior  of  the 
squad  with  an  eye  burning  with  strange  curiosity  and  ap 
prehension,  and  an  impulse  moved  her  to  seize  him  by  the 
arm.  She  did  so,  almost  with  fierceness,  but  relinquished 
her  hold  as  he  turned  mildly  iipon  her,  and  regarded  her 
with  an  eye  so  full  of  tenderness  that  she  bowed  her  head, 
in  sudden  emotion,  and  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

The  man  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but,  perceiving  his 

intention,  she  stepped  between  him  and  the  door,  and, 

^  planting  herself  against  it,  still  continued  weeping.     The 

visitor  was  overcome,  and,  making  no  attempt  to  pass  her, 

•  'stepped  back  towards  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  know  wno  I  be  ?"  inquired  he  at  last,  with  a 
trembling  voice. 

Mary  compressed  her  lips  firmly,  raised  her  eyes  to  his, 
and  bowed  her  affirmation. 

"  Does  he  ?"  with  a  nod  and  look  at  Hugh.  Mary  shook 
her  head. 

• 

"  I  never  expected  to  speak  to  you  agi'n,  and  I  shouldn't 
now,  if  you  hadn't  made  me,  but  I'm  glad  you  did,  'cause 
I  may  do  you  a  good  turn,  though  I  haven't  anything  good 
to  say  to  you." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  285 

During  all  this  scene  Hugh  had  stood  as  if  in  a  dream — 
his  mind  filled  with  strange  fears  and  fancies.  The  abun 
dant  stores  that  had  been  deposited  in  the  cabin  did  not 
surprise  him,  until  he  saw  that  Mary  was  surprised,  and 
that  she  was  exercised  by  very  strong  emotions.  Then,  as 
he  saw  a  mutual  recognition  of  acquaintance  between  the 
two,  all  the  stories  he  had  ever  heard  of  Mary  filled  his 
mind,  and  he  trembled  with  excitement.  The  man  did  not 
look  or  talk  like  an  Indian.  He  was  disguised.  Perhaps 
those  who  had  retired  were  disguised.  Perhaps  they  were 
but  servants,  after  all,  of  one  whom  many  firmly  believed 
to  be  Mary's  master.  The  gifts  they  had  left,  immediately 
upon  these  considerations  assumed  a  new  and  alarming 
significance,  and  he  began  to  feel  that,  in  very  truth,  he 
might  be  within  the  toils  of  the  adversary.  If  so,  he  knew 
that  he  was  hopelessly  there,  for  his  heart  told  him  that  his 
destiny  was  linked  with  Mary  irrevocably. 

"  Mary,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  I  know  all  what  you're 
goin'  to  do.  You're  goin'  to  marry  this  boy,  and  it's  a  bad 
bargain  for  both  on  you.  It  won't  be  your  fault  nor  his'n, 
but  your  enemies  ain't  dead  yet,  any  naore'n  mine.  You're 
leavin'  a  good  place,  and  it's  been  a  safe  one  so  fur,  and 
you're  comin'  here,  away  from  Mary  Holyoke  and  her  hus 
band,  and  I'm  afraid  it'll  get  you  into  .trouble ;  and  this 
little  body  that  you've  got  here  can'|^do  anything  to  help 
you." 

Mary's  eyes  flashed  with  an  angry  gleam  as  she  ex 
claimed,  "  I  can  help  myself.  I  should  like  to  see  the  man 
who  Avould  dare  to  lay  his  hand  on  him,  or  on  me.  Hugh 
and  I  shall  mind  our  own  business,  and  if  other  people  do 
not  mind  theirs  I  shall  tell  them  to."  And  Mary  walked 
forth  and  back  across  the  cabin,  her  face  flushed  with  ex 
citement. 

"Well,  I  hope  it'll  come  outright,"  said  the  man,  "but  I 
haven't  got  any  faith.  I  like  your  spunk,  but  it  don't  count 


286  THE     BAY     PATH. 

in  a  fight  with  crazy  folks  and  fools.  It'll  only  tell  ag'in  you 
when  the  thing  comes  to  a  pinch,  and  be  laid  to  the  devil 
that's  in  you.  But,  Mary,  I  didn't  come  here  to  trouble  you 
this  morning.  I  come  here  to  do  you  good,  and  I  didn't 
expect  to  find  you  here.  There's  lots  of  corn  and  dried  veni 
son  and  salmon  on  the  floor,  and  you're  welcome  to  it  all. 
God  knows  I  want  to  see  you  happy,  and  all  I  can  do  to 
make  you  happy  I  shall  keep  a-doin'.  You  won't  tell  any 
body  who  you've  seen,  and  you  won't  let  anybody  else — 
you  know  too  much  for  that — and  now  I  reckon  I'd  better 
go  back  to  where  I  come  from." 

He  went  towards  the  door,  but  hesitated  and  hung  his 
head.  Raising  it  at  length,  he  approached  Mary,  and  took 
her  hand.  "  Mary,"  said  he,  "  I've  been  leadin'  a  rough 
life,  but  I  don't  forget  anything.  I  know  how  good  it  is  to 
be  like  folks,  and  be  with  'em,  and  I  miss  a  thousand  things 
that  there  wouldn't  anybody  give  me  credit  for.  I  look 
rough,  and  I  be  rough,  but  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  do 
before  I  die,  and  that  I  know'll  warm  my  heart  till  it  stops 
beatin',  and  give  me  somethin'  to  think  of  that'll  keep  me 
human,  and  kind  o'^jine  me  on,  if  it  is  a  good  ways  off,  to 
somethin'  that's  good.  Mary,  the  last  woman's  face  that  I 
ever  kissed  was*a  cold  one,  and  none  but  the  worms  kissed 
it  after  me ;  and-n'ow,  if  you'll  let  me  kiss  your'n  before  I  go, 
I'll  never  kiss  anOTRr  in  this  world,  and  I'll  remember  it 
always." 

Mary,  thoroughly  melted,  and  thoroughly  charmed  by 
the  same  strange  eloquence  that  had  haunted  her  memory 
for  many  years,  threw  her  arms  impulsively  .about  the  old 
man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again.  It  was  enough. 
Drawing  a  purse  from  his  belt  filled  with  coins  and  wam 
pum,  he  pressed  it  into  her  hand,  and  hurried  from  her 
sight. 

Mary  stood  looking  through  the  vacant  doorway  long 
after  he  had  vanished,  but  at  last  turned,  with  a  cloud  of 


THE     BAY     PATH.  287 

deep  disturbance  upon  her  face,  and  regarding  her  astonished 
lover  with  a  strange  expression  in  her  wonderful  eyes,  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  articles  upon  the  floor,  "  These  are  to  be 
packed  away  out  of  sight,  and  you  are  to  say  nothing  of 
what  you  have  seen  this  morning.  Some  time  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it ;  and  remember,  till  then,  that  I  have  done 
nothing  wrong  in  kissing  that  old  man.  You  will  love  me, 
better  for  it  when  you  know  why  I  did  it." 

Hugh  was  contented  with  the  explanation,  and  putting 
his  arm  fondly  around  her,  begged  her  to  be  pleasant  and 
happy,  as  her  looks  chilled  him,  and  made  him  miserable. 

"  Hugh,"  said  Mary,  looking  him  in  the  face  with  an  ex 
pression  of  the  deepest  tenderness,  "  we  don't  know  what's 
before  us.  There  are  people  in  the  plantation  who  think 
I'm  bad,  and  you  see  what  this  man  thinks,  and  he  knows 
better  than  anybody  else.  He  thinks  that  as  soon  as  I  get 
out  of  Mr.  Holyoke's  house  these  people  will  be  after  me,  and 
give  me  trouble." 

"  Let's  not  get  married  then,"  said  Hugh,  deprecatingly. 
"  We  can  live  as  we  have  lived,  until  things  change.  I 
should  die  if  they  were  to  take  you  away  from  me,  or  if  my 
marrying  you  should  get  you  into  difficulty." 

"  Not  get  married  ?"  said  Mary,  wrehJnfTce  determina 
tion  mantling  her  face.  "  Do  you  supiJBPthat  I  would  put 
it  off  an  hour  for  fear?  I  would  see^rc.  Moxon  (and  her 
voice  sank  to  a  low  whisper)  and  the  miserable  fools  who 
believe  in  him  and  his  crazy  children,  sunk  to  the  bottom 
of  the  river  before  I  would  change  a  plan  of  my  life  the 
breadth  of  a  hair.  They  are  more  cruel  than  bears.  What 
have  I  done  to  them?  How  have  I  hurt  them?  Why 
can't  they  let  me  alone  ? — always  talking  about  me — always 
worrying  me,  and  trying  to  make  me  miserable." 

"  Don't  look  so — don't  talk  so !"  exclaimed  Hugh,  with 
tender  importunity. 

Mary  kissed  him  passionately,  and  resumed :  "  Ah,  Hugh ! 


288  THE     BAY     PATH. 

They've  tried  to  .  get  you  away  from  me,  but  they  shall 
never  do  it.  We  shall  be  married  to-night.  They  cannot 
cheat  me,  and  I  shall  give  them  no  chance.  No,  Hugh, 
we'll  be  married — we'll  be  married — if  we  never  see  another 
happ"y  day.  Let  them  do  their  worst." 

Hugh  had  nothing  to  say,  and  in  his  silence  yielded 
assent  to  her  determination,  as  one  from  which  there  was 
no  appeal.  After  disposing  of  the  provisions  which  the 
Indians  had  brought  in  accordance  with  her  previous  deci 
sion,  the  two  replenished  the  fire,  and  took  their  way  back 
to  Mary's  home. 

The  wedding  was  solemnized  in  the  meeting-house  just 
at  night-fall,  Mr.  Pynchon  performing  the  ceremony,  as 
was  his  office  on  all  such  occasions  in  the  settlement.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  speak  of  the  whispers  that  echoed  around 
the  chilly  house  as  the  strangely  matched  pair  made  their 
appearance  ;  of  the  shrugs  of  shoulders  in  the  audience ;  of 
the  poorly  disguised  spite  of  nearly  every  woman  in  the 
congregation  ;  of  the  cold  greetings  that  were  bestowed 
upon  the  pair  as  they  passed  out  of  the  house;  of  the  evil 
prophecies,  the  po#r  jokes,  the  sly  calumnies  that  were 
uttered  on  every  hand. 

Only  the  family  df  Mr.  Pynchon  and  the  young  friends 
of  the  bridegroO^Blreated  the  married  pair  with  cordiality. 
For  them,  Mary  ™Pa  tear  of  love  and  gratitude,  but,  for 
the  remainder,  only  cool  defiance.  She  looked  at  them, 
from  side  to  side,  until  each  eye  that  met  her  own  quailed 
as  if  under  an  irresistible  influence. 

A  social  gathering  in  honor  of  the  occasion  was  held  at 
the  house  of  Holyoke,'but  it  was  not  a  happy  one,  and  was 
broken  up  at  an  early  hour.  Mary  wore  an  air  of  deep 
abstraction  during  the  evening,  and  responded  but  feebly 
and  incoherently  to  such  good-natured  raillery  as  was 
addressed  to  her ;  and  was  evidently  rejoiced  when  the 
party  .  separated,  and  when,  with  a  choice  company  of 


THE     BAY     PATH.  289 

friends,  she  took  her  departure  for  her  own  home.  There 
she  was  left,  at  last,  with  many  kind  expressions  of  inte 
rest  and  sympathy — her  schemes  all  accomplished,  and  the 
prize  she  had  so  fiercely  coveted,  and  boldly  striven  for, 
secured. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE  first  month  of  Mary  Woodcock's  married  life  passed 
pleasantly  away.  The  cloud  which  overshadowed  her  as 
she  entered  it,  was  temporarily  lifted,  and  a  calm  and  sweet 
content  succeeded  to  the  apprehensions  and  disquietudes 
that  had  gathered  so  closely  about  her.  Slander  having 
done  its  worst  to  thwart  her  plans  and  ruin  her  hopes, 
withdrew  for  a  time  its  cruel  offices,  and  waited  for 
renewed  strength  and  fresh  opportunities.  She  saw  but 
little  company,  and  hardly  ventured  beyond  the  inclosures 
of  her  dwelling.  Hugh  was  rarely  out  of  her  sight,  and,  so 
long  as  he  was  near,  she  cared  for  nothing  beyond.  She 
lavished  upon  him  all  the  deep  fondness  of  her  powerful 
nature,  and,  in  her  own  happiness  and  his,  demonstrated 
the  perfect  legitimacy  of  the  union  between  them — a  union 
popularly  deemed  faulty,  not  because  it  was  unnatural,  but 
because  it  was  unusual,  in  its  relations. 

Little  by  little,  however,  the  slanderous  murmur  was 
renewed.  Hugh,  whenever  he  stirred  abroad,  came  home 
with  a  troubled  brow  and  a  heavy  heart.  Poisoned  words 
were  flung  in  his  ears  from  brawling  tongues,  and  calumnies 
were  breathed  in  sly  insinuations.  Much  as  he  endeavored 
to  cover  their  effect  upon  his  mind  from  her  sight,  he  could 
never  succeed  in  doing  it.  She  read  his  face  on  every  re 
turn  as  if  it  were  the  most  legible  of  tablets,  and  he  could 
never  refuse  her  demand  to  tell  her  everything.  The  eifect 
of  these  things  on  Hugh's  mind  made  them  doubly  oppres 
sive  to  her. 

For  herself,  she  could,  defy  and  despise  those  who  sought 


THE     BAT     PATH.  291 

her  injury,  but  the  thought  that  they  were  endeavoring 
day  by  day  to  undermine  her  husband's  confidence  in  her, 
and  had  fully  succeeded  in  filling  him  with  perplexity  and 
anxiety,  cut  her  to  the  quick,  and  often  fairly  disrobed  her 
of  her  strength. 

At  times,  when  she  was  alone  with  Hugh,  talking  upon 
the  ever  prevalent  subject,  she  gave  way  to  wild  bursts  of 
impatience  and  passion  that  fairly  frightened  him ;  and  then 
she  would  weep  upon  his  neck  like  a  child,  telling  him 
that  he  was  all  the  comfort  she  had  in  the  world,  and 
begging  him  never  to  forsake  her,  and  never  to  distrust 
her. 

Mary  found,  whenever  she  ventured  abroad,  that  she  was 
regarded  with  a  kind  of  impudent  curiosity  by  every  one 
she  met,  and  that  nearly  all  with  whom  she  conversed 
seemed  to  lie  in  wait  for  her  words  and  to  ask  her  strange 
and  irrelevant  questions.  Sometimes,  in  her  contempt  for 
the  efforts  made  to  entrap  her  in  her  expressions,  she  gave 
derisive  replies,  humoring  her  questioners  in  their  conceits 
touching  herself,  and  confirming  their  suspicions  by  her 
own  confessions,  uttered  with  an  irony  of  tone  that  none 
but  those  wilfully  perverse,  or  wholly  stultified,  could  fail 
to  understand. 

During  these  conversations,  few  though  they  were,  she 
unfortunately,  and  perhaps  unwisely,  let  drop  many  expres 
sions  that  were  tortured  into  slander,  and  perverted  into 
confessions  of  guilt.  These  expressions  were  bandied  about 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  once  more  she  had  become 
thoroughly  and  offensively  notorious. 

Matters  had  gone  on  badly  in  this  way,  until,  one  even 
ing  in  the  depth  of  Avinter,  as  Hugh  and  Mary  were  sitting 
by  their  glowing  fire,  a  rap  resounded  upon  the  door  of  the 
cabin,  and  the  same  was  slightly  opened,  though  not  suffi 
ciently  to  reveal  the  visitor.  Hugh  went  to  the  door  and 
undertook  to  open  it  wider,  but  it  was  held  where  he  found 


292  THE     BAY     PATH. 

it,  and,  through  the  crack,  Hugh  heard  the  words :  "  Can't 
you  come  out  here  a  minute,  Hugh?" 

Hugh  was  slightly  frightened,  and  did  not  detect  the 
voice  as  quickly  as  Mary,  who,  rising  suddenly  from  her 
chair,  advanced  to  the  door,  and,  seizing  it  strongly,  pulled 
Peter  Trimble  plump  into  the  room.  Peter  was  very  evi 
dently  taken  by  surprise,  and  had  not  a  single  pimple  ready 
for  exhibition. 

Drawing  his  hand  suddenly  down  over  his  face,  and 
taking  a  hurried  survey  of  his  trousers,  which  were  some 
what  seriously  patched,  he  took  the  chair  offered  him,  and 
held  out  his  blue  and  horny  hands  to  the  fire,  warmed  first 
one  ear  and  then  the  other,  slid  from  a  violent  shiver  into 
a  snicker,  and  turning  and  slapping  Hugh  on  the  shoulder  ex 
claimed,  "  By  George !  Hugh,  you've  got  the  stoutest  wife 
there  is  in  this  place.  Now,  you  needn't  say  you  haven't,  for 
I  know  you  have.  There  ain't  another  woman  in  the  planta 
tion  could  have  pulled  me  in  as  she  did.  I  couldn't  hold 
the  door — upon  my  word  I  couldn't — any  more'n  if  an 
elephant  was  hold  of  it." 

Mary  and  Hugh  both  greeted  Peter's  highly  appreciative 
compliment  with  a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  which  Peter  im 
pulsively  united  in  at  first,  but  a  sudden  thought  struck  him 
into  soberness,  as  if  it  had  smitten  him  across  the  mouth. 
Mary  and  Hugh  both  noticed  it,  and  the  former  spoke  of 
it,  and  rallied  him  upon  it. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Peter,  "  I  didn't  come  hear  to  laugh, 
and  I  didn't  mean  to  come  in  at  all ;  but  there's  something 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  and  something  that  you  ought  to  know, 
and  I  sort  o'  mistrusted  that  I  could  help  you  out  of  it." 

"  You  f  Who  are  you  talking  to — Hugh,  or  me  ?"  in 
quired  Mary  with  sudden  energy. 

"  Well,  I  meant  you,  but  I  was  talking  to  Hugh,  because 
I  didn't  expect  to  say  anything  to  you." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 


THE     BAT     PATH.  293 

"  It's  nothing  that  I've  had  anything  to  do  with,"  replied 
Peter,  "  but  I  heard  something  that  was  going  to  be  done, 
and  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  tell  Hugh  how  you  could 
dodge  it." 

"  Peter,"  said  Mary,  rising  and  grasping  him  by  the  arm, 
"  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

Peter  began  to  blubber,  but  managed  to  keep  the  mastery 
of  his  emotion  and  his  tongue  sufficiently  to  say,  "  Mary, 
they're  agoing  to  take  you  up  to-morrow,  for  saying  some 
thing  bad  about  widow  Marshfield;"  and  as  he  saw  her 
looking  blankly  into  his  face,  endeavoring,  as  she  was, 
to  comprehend  the  disgrace  before  her,  he  continued — 
"  and  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  tell  you  how  to  dodge  the 
whole  thing."  • 

"  Something  bad  about  widow  Marshfield  ?  Take  me 
up  ?"  said  Mary  slowly  and  wonderingly. 

"  I  don't  say  you  said  something  bad  about  her,"  replied 
Peter,  "  but  they're  r'ally  going  to  do  something.  Now 
don't  feel  so,  for  I  think  it  can  be  dodged  by  coming  a 
small  rig.  If  it  was  me  that  was  going  to  be  took  up" 
(continued  Peter,  with  an  encouraging  expression  of  counte 
nance,  and  a  lively  tone  of  voice),  "I  shouldn't  lose  any 
sleep,  and  I  tell  you  how  I  should  work  it.  I'd  have  rheu 
matism  enough  to  kill  three  men,  and  get  the  case  put  off. 
Or  I'd  break  my  leg  or  something  of  that  kind.  Land  ahead ! 
there  aint  any  surgeon  here — they  wouldn't  know — and  all 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  holler  like  bloody  murder  if  they 
touch  you."  Peter  sa-w  that  his  revelations  were  rather 
enlivening  the  countenance  of  his  auditors,  and  went  on. 
"  Or  I'd  make  believe  I  was  crazy,  and  spit  all  over  my  clo'es, 
and  take  off  my  boot  and  wipe  my  nose  on  it,  and  flip  beans 
all  day  at  a  mark,  and  walk  around  among  the  trees,  and 
make  believe  they  are  men,  and  say,  '  How  are  you,  Mr. 
Beech  ?  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Pine  ?  Hullo  !  Mr.  Apple  ! 
how  do  you  do,  and  how's  your  orchard  ?'  Land  ahead  ! 


294  THE     BAT     PATH. 

that  ain't  a  beginning.  I  could  do  any  quantity  of  things. 
The  fact  is,  there  ain't  any  end  to  the  things  I  could  do, 
if  I  r'ally  set  out  for  it." 

All  this  would  have  been  amusing  enough  under  less 
serious  circumstances,  but  Mary  could  only  give  it  a  tole 
rating  smile,  and  ask  Peter  if  he  knew  what  charges  were  to 
be  brought  against  her.  Peter  did  not  know,  but  he  rather 
thought  there  would  be  enough  of  them,  and  that  perhaps 
it  would  be  safe  to  assume  the  double  affliction  of  rheuma 
tism  and  insanity. 

All  three  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  when  Peter  rose 
with  lively  energy  in  his  feet,  with  the  inquiry,  "  Have  you 
got  any  money  ?" 

"  Yes — why  ?"  replied  and  inquired  Mary. 

"  Because,  if  you  should  happen  to  break  down  on  the 
rig,  you  might  want  some.  If  it  goes  agi'n  you,  we  all 
know  mighty  well  what  it  will  be.  We  ain't  rich  enough 
to  have  a  jail  yet,  and  it's  nothing  but  money  or  whipping." 

At  the  last  word  Mary  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  uttered  a 
groan  so  full  of  acute  pain  that  Hugh  and  Peter  both 
turned  pale  with  fright.  Then,  while  her  eyes  flashed,  and 
the  old  bright  spots  burned  upon  her  cheeks,  she  paced  up 
and  down  the  apartment,  her  lips  tightly  compressed,  and 
her  arms  folded  closely  across  her  breast.  If  she  had  been 
stung  in  the  bosom  by  a  viper,  she  could  not  have  been 
more  terribly  agitated. 

The  possibility  that  she  should  be  subjected  to  such  a 
disgrace  as  a  public  whipping  was  maddening.  The  con 
sciousness  that  she  was  generally  suspected  and  hated,  the 
uncertainty  in  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  charges  to  be 
made  against  her,  her  anxiety  for  Hugh,  and  her  desire  not 
to  be  disgraced  in  his  eyes — all  this  conspired  to  induce  a 
state  of  mind  bordering  on  distraction. 

Peter  was  greatly  agitated  by  the  effect  he  had  produced, 
but  not  being  particularly  sensitive  himself,  he  could  hardly 


THE     BAT     PATH.  295 

appreciate  the  real  cause  of  her  suffering.  "  If  it  really 
comes  to  that,"  said  he,  soothingly,  "  I've  got  a  piece  of 
buckskin  that  you  can  put  under  your  clo'es,  where  the 
constable  can't  see  it,  and  he  can't  hurt  much  through  that, 
now  I  tell  you." 

When  he  had  concluded,  Mary  came  up  to  him,  and  said, 
"  Peter,  be  kind  enough  to  leave  us  now.  You  mean  us 
well,  and  I  thank  you  for  having  told  us  what  you  have, 
but  you  cannot  do  us  any  good,  and  we  want  to  be  alone." 

"  Well,  I'll  go,"  replied  Peter,  and  buttoning  up  his 
shabby  coat  to  the  chin,  and  drawing  his  cap  down  over  his 
ears,  he  bade  the  sad  pair  "  good  night,"  and  picked  his  way 
along  the  poorly  made  snow-path  homewards. 

The  first  thing  which  Mary  attended  to  after  his  departure 
was  the  counting  of  her  money.  It  was  a  handsome  little 
sum,  and  one  which  seemed  competent  to  cover  any  fine  that 
might  be  imposed  upon  her  for  any  offence  that  malignity 
might  charge  her  with  or  perjury  convict  her  of. 

The  pair  sat  and  talked  late  into  the  night,  and  retired  at 
last  to  a  sleepless  bed,  where  they  tossed  in  feverish 
wretchedness  until  the  morning.  Breakfast  was  prepared, 
and  each  tried  to  sustain  the  other  by  an  appearance  of  ap 
petite,  but  it  was  a  hard  task,  and  was  soon  relinquished. 
After  the  table  was  cleared,  both  sat  down  to  wait  im 
patiently,  and  with  anxious  uncertainty,  the  development 
of  events. 

There  were  frequent  visits  to  the  window  looking  out 
upon  the  village,  and  questions  asked  and  answered  in  an 
under-tone,  until,  at  last,  Mary  started  suddenly  back  from 
one  of  her  visits  to  the  window,  and  took  her  seat  in  silence 
at  the  fire.  Hugh  understood  the  movement,  and  arose  to 
look  for  himself.  He  saw  what  he  looked  for,  and  returned 
and  tremblingly  took  his  seat,  and  gazed  with  painful  sym 
pathy  upon  his  wife.  She  was  looking  into  the  fire,  whisper 
ing  to  herself,  and  nervously  shaking  her  head,  as  if  she 


296  THE     BAT     PATH. 

were  holding  an  imaginary  altercation.  Hugh  dared  not 
address  her,  and  hardly  ventured  to  draw  a  long  breath. 
At  length,  the  feet  of  a  briskly  walking  man  were  heard  ap 
proaching,  and,  as  he  came  into  the  yard,  Mary  rose  to  hei 
feet,  walked  to  the  door,  and  throwing  it  open,  exclaimed, 
"  Thomas  Merrick,  do  your  devil's  work,  and  have  it  over 
with." 

The  constable  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  thunderstruck. 
He  had  never  seen  such  an  impersonation  of  desperation, 
and  had  anticipated  quite  a  different  scene.  He  could  only 
stand  speechless  for  a  minute,  and  look  into  her  face  ;  and 
he  did  not  stir  until  Mary  imperatively  demanded  of  him  his 
errand. 

"  I  came,"  said  the  constable,  recovering  himself,  and 
advancing  into  the  cabin,  "  to  arrest  you  on  a  charge  of 
slander." 

"  And  whom  have  I  slandered?" 

"  Widow  Marshfield." 

"  What  am  I  accused  of  saying  about  the  precious  widow 
Marshfield  ?"  inquired  Mary  with  a  bitter  sneer. 

"  You  will  learn  that  soon  enough,  I  dare  say,"  replied  the 
constable. 

"  Goodman  Merrick,"  said  Mary,  walking  closely  up  to 
him,  and  looking  him  fiercely  in  the  eye,  "  what  can  they  do 
to  me,  if  lies  enough  are  told  about  me  to  prove  what  I  am 
charged  with  ?" 

"  The  magistrate  can  fine  you,  or  order  you  to  be  whip 
ped,  or  both  together.  He  could  do  more  and  worse  than 
this,  but  those  are  the  common  punishments  here." 

"  You  do  the  whipping,  do  you  ?" 

"  The  constable  always  does  it." 

"  And  would  you  whip  me  ?" 

"I  have  sworn  faithfully  to  perform  the  constable's 
duties."  .  r 

"  Well,  now,  mark  you,  Thomas  Merrick  (and  Mary  kept 


THE     BAY     PATH.  297 

her  fierce  eyes  fixed  upon  him),  I  am  as  innocent  of  the  charge 
that  you  have  arrested  me  on  as  an  unborn  child — as  my 
unborn  child — (and  her  voice  sank  to  a  trembling  whisper) 
and  if  you  abuse  me,  or  bring  peril  on  my  burden,  I  will 
pray  God  to  curse  you  with  the  last  breath  I  draw.  You 
are  a  husband  and  a  parent.  Act  like  one.  The  people  of 
this  town  are  determined  to  make  hell  of  my  home;  don't 
you  be  guilty  of  making  a  devil  of  me." 

The  constable  was  overcome.  He  knew  that  Mary  de 
spised  his  office  and  disliked  him,  but  there  was  something  in 
her  fiercely  courageous  earnestness  that  commanded  his 
respect,  and  something  in  her  appeal  which  softened  him 
wonderfully.  "All  I  can  do  consistently  with  my  oath  to 
make  your  sentence  light  shall  be  done,"  said  he.  "  What 
can  I  say  more  ?" 

"  Nothing.     I  am  content.     Shall  I  go  now  ?" 

"  Now,  if  you  please." 

Mary  whispered  a  few  words  to  Hugh,  who,  in  accord 
ance  with  her  instructions,  went  to  the  closet  where  she 
kept  her  money,  and  drawing  forth  the  purse  deposited  it  in 
his  pocket.  She  then  put  on  such  extra  clothing  as  the  cold 
weather  demanded,  and,  drawing  her  hood  closely  down 
over  her  face,  declared  her  readiness  to  accompany  the  con 
stable.  Hugh  had,  in  the  meantime,  prepared  himself  to 
go  with  them,  and  all  issued  from  the  door  together.  The 
morning  was  biting  cold,  but  the  air  was  still  and  peaceful, 
and  the  smoke  went  up  from  all  the  chimneys  of  the  settlement 
like  incense.  Children  were  shouting  in  the  distance,  the 
teamster  was  merrily  cracking  his  whip,  tidy  housewives 
were  brushing  off  their  door  steps  with  their  heavy  birch 
brooms,  and  all  seemed  careless,  lively,  and  happy.  But  in 
Mary's  heart,  as  she  passed  one  house  after  another,  where 
she  knew  that  her  name  had  met  with  foul  treatment,  there 
was  rebellion  and  wretchedness.  All  were  happy  but  her 
self,  and  the  one  dearest  to  her. 

IS* 


298  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Her  appearance  with  the  constable  was  the  subject  of 
lively  gossip  along  the  street,  and  many  a  gratified  stare 
was  directed  to  her  from  the  windows.  These  she  did  not 
see,  but,  as  she  passed  the  house  of  Holyoke — the  home  of 
the  happiest  portion  of  her  childhood — she  could  not  forbear 
raising  her  eyes  to  see  if  her  truest  friend  were  the  wit 
ness  of  her  disgrace.  Mary  Holyoke  stood  at  the  window, 
pale  with  recent  illness,  and  smiled  so  sweetly  as  she  bowed 
to  her,  and  wafted  to  her  a  kiss  so  affectionately,  that,  soft 
ened  into  tears,  she  bowed  her  head,  and  sobbed  during  the 
remainder  of  the  distance  to  the  house  of  the  magistrate. 

Leaving  them  in  the  room  in  which  the  trial  was  to  be 
held,  the  constable  retired  to  summon  the  witnesses,  or, 
rather,  to  announce  to  them  the  readiness  of  the  court. 
The  passage  of  the  constable  with  his  prisoner  through  the 
street,  was  a  sufficient  advertisement  of  the  affair  in  pro 
gress,  and  one  after  another  dropped  in  to  witness  the  trial. 
Peter  was  the  first,  having  secured  his  release  from  labor 
for  the  day  during  the  previous  evening.  He  was  a  good 
deal  affected  by  the  appearance  of  the  pair.  They  seemed 
to  have  grown  haggard  and  old  since,  but  a  few  hours 
before,  he  had  unintentionally  greeted  them  at  their  hearth 
stone.  Mr.  Moxon,  Mr.  Holyoke,  Deacon  Chapin,  and  nearly 
a  dozen  women,  were  also  among  the  crowded  audience. 
Mary' wondered  who  the  witnesses  against  her  might  be, 
but  she  paid  little  attention  to  the  throng  about  her,  for 
she  was  conscious  of  being  the  subject  of  their  conversa 
tion. 

At  last,  Mr.  Pynchon  made  his  appearance,  and  took  his 
seat  at  his  desk.  Looking  over  it,  he  gazed  long  and  anx 
iously  at  the  prisoner,  who  turned  with  a  look  of  honest 
innocence  and  trust,  and  met  his  inquiring  eyes.  Mr.  Pyn 
chon  had  seen  the  girl  much,  as  she  had  grown  up  under 
the  care  of  his  daughter,  and  had  always  entertained  a 
peculiar  regard  for  her  as  the  child  of  a  strange  man  whom 


K. 

THE     BAY     PATH.  299 

he  had  never  ceased  to  love  And  respect.  Her  present 
position  was  one  which  gave  him  severe  pain,  but,  from  the 
industrious  representations  made  to  him  by  many  persons 
in  the  plantation,  and  in  consequence  of  definite  though 
frivolous  charges,  he  had,  at  last,  concluded  to  issue  a  war 
rant  for  her  arrest. 

As  he  met  her  look — so  pleading  and  trustful — he  re 
pented  of  the  step  he  had  taken,  and  wished  the  business 
off  his  hands.  As  he  sat  there,  looking  half  vacantly  at  the 
spirited  woman  whose  mute  appeal  he  had  felt,  he  could 
not  help  recalling  a  scene  that  occurred  on  the  same  spot 
many  years  before — when  her  father  was  on  trial  for  the 
same  offence,  nominally,  with  which  she  was  charged,  and 
when  she  was  an  ill-trained  and  wayward  child. 

Then  his  eye  passed  over  to  Mr.  Moxon,  in  whose  hatred 
and  hallucinations  the  troubles  of  both  father  and  child  had 
originated,  and  he  felt  how  poorly  justice  was  meted  out  in 
this  world,  and  especially  how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to 
render  equity  in  judgment  to  the  people  of  his  charge.  The 
laws  were  defective,  as  their  human  authors  were,  and, 
even  when  operating  for  the  general  good,  sometimes  dis 
criminated  in  favor  of  the  doers  of  evil  against  the  holders 
of  the  right. 

"  Mary  Parsons,"  said  the  magistrate,  at  length,  in  a  mild 
voice,  "  you  will  stand,  and  listen  to  the  charge  upon  which 
you  have  been  arrested." 

Mary  rose,  and,  turning  boldly  around,  looked  her  judge 
in  the  face  with  an  eye  so  bright  and  strong  that  it  almost 
overthrew  his  equanimity,  and  he  hesitated  before  proceed 
ing. 

"  You  are  charged,"  continued  he,  "  with  defaming  the 
good  name  of  the  widow  Marshfield,  in  reporting  her  to 
have  been  suspected  for  a  witch.  The  bringing  of  such  a 
suspicion  as  this — a  suspicion  of  having  familiar  dealings 
with  the  Adversary — against  a  respectable  and  innocent 


300  THE     BAY     PATH. 

woman,  is  a  very  grave  offence.  Are  you  guilty  or  not 
guilty  ?" 

"  Not  guilty !"  exclaimed  Mary,  with  a  sudden  shake  of 
her  head,  and  a  voice  almost  spiteful  in  its  decisiveness. 

The  interested  individuals  in  the  audience  exchanged 
significant  glances,  and  Mr.  Moxon  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
seat,  as  if  he  were  in  some  way  connecting  her  answer  with 
the  previous  remark  of  the  magistrate.  Goody  Marshfield, 
the  spirited  looking  widow  who  had  made  the  complaint, 
sat  but  a  short  distance  from  the  prisoner,  and,  tossing  her 
head  saucily,  nodded  at  two  or  three  friends  with  a  smile 
which,  being  interpreted,  said,  "  Did  any  one  ever  see  such 
impudence !" 

It  was  evident  from  the  expression  upon  the  faces  of  all 
the  men  present  that  the  widow  was  a  woman  equally 
courted  and  feared — one  who  assumed  the  place  of  a  popu 
lar  favorite,  and  maintained  it  at  the  point  of  her  wit  and 
the  edge  of  her  sarcasm.  In  fact,  it  was  owing  to  her 
cutting  speeches  in  regard  to  Mary  that  the  latter  had  been 
led  into  remarks  from  which  the  present  charge  was 
trumped  up. 

"  Goody  Marshfield,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  who  are  your 
witnesses  ?" 

Now  the  term  "Goody"  did  not  sound  pleasantly  to 
the  spirited  widow,  and  a  flush  of  anger  passed  over  her 
features  as  she  replied,  "John  Matthews  and  Goody 
Matthews." 

"  The  witnesses  named  by  Goody  Marshfield  will  arise 
and  receive  the  oath,"  said  the  magistrate. 

The  man  and  his  wife  did  as  they  were  bidden,  but,  as 
they  arose  and  advanced  to  the  stand,  they  shunned  the 
burning  eye  which  Mary  Parsons  fixed  upon  them,  and 
looked  far  more  like  culprits  than  she. 

"  John  Matthews,"  said  the  magistrate,  after  administer 
ing  the  oath  to  the  pair,  "have  you  ever  heard  Mary 


THE     BAT     PATH.  301 

Parsons  say  that  Goody  Marshfield  had  been  suspected  for 
a  witch  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  have,"  replied  the  man,  while  his  heart 
bumped  so  heavily  against  the  walls  of  his  chest  as  to  jar 
his  voice. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  when  and  where,  and  give  all  the 
circumstances  connected  with  the  matter  ?" 

"  Well,  Goody  Parsons  come  to  my  house  one  time  when 
my  wife  and  I  was  both  to  home,  and  we  got  to  talking 
about  one  thing  and  another,  when  my  wife,  says  she, 
'  Mary — Widow  Marshfield  says  you'v'e  took  a  child  to 
bring  up,  but  he's  so  small  he'll  never  make  much  Hugh- 
and-cry."  (A  titter  all  about  the  room,  and  a  nod  from  the 
widow  which  meant,  "  Pretty  good — wasn't  it.")  "  Well, 
this  made  Mary  mad,  and  says  she  to  my  wife — Widow 
Marshfield  has  been  grudging  every  child  that's  been  born 
in  the  plantation,  because  her  girl  didn't  have  any ;  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  one,  it  died,  and  her  cow  died  at  the  same 
time,  and  died  a'  bellering,  'cause  she  thought  the  child 
was  her'n."  ("  Sharp  shooting,"  whispered  Deacon  Chapin 
to  Mr.  Moxon,  the  widow  meanwhile  assuming  an  air  of 
charming  imperturbation,  and  the  magistrate  drawing  his 
hand  slowly  down  over  his  mouth,  as  if  he  rather  enjoyed 
it.)  "And  then  she  went  on,  Mary  did,  and  said  that 
widow  Marshfield  was  suspected  for  a  witch  when  she 
lived  in  Windsor,  and,  for  all  she  knew,  the  child  and  *the 
cow  were  bewitched  when  they  died,  and  that  was  what 
ailed  them.  I  told  her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself 
to  talk  so  about  a  respectable  woman,  and  that  I  didn't 
believe  a  word  of  it ;  but  she  stuck  to  what  she  said,  and 
when  I  asked  her  what  she  knew  about  it,  she  said  it  was 
known  all  over  Windsor  that  the  Devil  had  a  private  room 
in  her  house,  where  he  met  all  the  witches  once  a  week,  to 
have  a  grand  feast  and  lay  out  his  work ;  and  she  didn't 
see  any  reason  why  she  shouldn't  have  dealings  with  him 


302  THE     BAY     PATH. 

in  Springfield  as  well  as  Windsor.  That  is  pretty  much  all 
I  heard,  but  she  and  my  wife  were  keeping  up  the  talk 
when  I  come  away." 

"  Was  Goody  Parsons  talking  in  earnest,  or  was  she  only 
trying  to  see  what  she  could  say,  as  an  offset  to  Goody 
Marshfield's  sharp  words  ?" 

"  I  never  see  a  woman  more  earnest  in  my  life,"  said  the 
witness,  forgetful  of  tense  and  truth  together. 

"  And  you  really  believe  she  meant  all  she  said  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  sit  down,  and  Goody  Matthews  will  take  your 
place." 

The  new  witness  was  a  woman  greatly  given  to  gossip, 
carried  a  glib  and  ready  tongue,  and  presented  a  thin  form 
and  face  whose  sharp  outlines  accorded  well  with  her  cha 
racter.  In  all  her  allusions  to  her  husband,  she  ignored 
everything  else  masculine  in  the  universe,  by  speaking  of 
him  as  lie — that  pronoun,  in  its  several  cases,  being  assumed 
as  descriptive  of  and  applicable  to,  that  individual  alone 
whom  she  had  sworn  to  love,  honor,  and  obey,  and  whom 
she  had  repeatedly  made  to  swear,  by  declining  to  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind. 

"  Goody  Matthews,  what  do  you  know  about  this  case  ?" 
inquired  the  magistrate. 

"  I  know  just  the  same  as  him,  only  he  left  before  we  got 
throSigh  talking,  and  didn't  hear  it  all." 

"  Then  your  husband's  testimony  is  correct,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  is  it  ?"  inquired  the  magistrate. 

"  He  ain't  in  the  habit  of  swearing  to  lies ;"  and  the 
offended  wife  pursed  up  her  mouth,  and  assumed  an  air  of 
offended  sensibility  that  drew  a  smile  upon  Mr.  Pynchon's 
face  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Very  well — what  did  you  hear  more  ?" 

"  Well,  I  was  telling  her  about  something  that  happened 
the  day  before,  when  I  was  getting  ready  to  get  dinner. 


THE     BAT    PATH.  303 

I'd  put  about  half  a  pound  of  veal  into  the  pot — he  don't 
care  much  about  meat,  and  veal  ain't  very  good  warmed 
over " 

"  Was  this  operation  performed  when  Mary  was  in  the 
house  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  witness ;  "  this  was  what  I  was  telling 
her.  I  was  saying  to  her  that  I'd  put  about  half  a  pound 
of  veal  into  the  pot — it  wasn't  much,  but  he  never  did  like 
veal — and  I'd  put  the  water  in,  and  put  on  the  cover,  and 
when  the  time  come  to  hang  it  over  the  fire,  I  hung  it  right 
on,  without  thinking  of  looking  in,  because  I  knew  I  put  the 
veal  in,  and  poured  in  the  water,  and  put  on  the  cover — I 
remember  it,  because  I  did  it  just  after  I'd  washed  out  the 
pot,  and  I  know  I  thought  to  myself  that's  clean  enough  for 
anybody ;  and  right  after  that  I  put  in  the  veal.  Well, 
after  it  had  been  over  the  fire,  I  should  think  pretty  near 
half  an  hour,  I  took  oif  the  cover  to  see  if  the  water  wasn't 
pretty  near  biled  away,  and  there  wasn't  a  particle  of  veal 
in  the  pot,  and  it  didn't  look  as  if  there  had  been,  and  I 
haven't  seen  hide  nor  hair  of  the  piece  ever  since." 

"  What  has  this  to  do  with  the  case  ?"  inquired  the  ma 
gistrate. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say,  that  as  soon  as  I  had  told  Mary 
of  this,  I  said  I  wondered  what  had  become  of  that  veal ; 
and  says  she,  '  don't  you  think  it  was  witched  away  ?'  and 
says  I,  Mary,  what  is  it  makes  you  all  the  time  talkfng 
about  witches  ?  You  don't  believe  there's  any  witches  in 
the  town,  do  you  ?  Says  she,  yes — I  know  there  is  ;  and 
she  come  into  my  house,  when  I  was  carding  wool,  and  as 
long  as  she  was  there,  I  couldn't  make  the  wool  into  rolls. 
Says  I,  who  is  it  ?  Says  she,  it's  her." 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pynchon. 

"  I  mean  widow  Marshfield,  that  we'd  just  been  talking 
about;  and  then  says  she,  Mr.  Stebbins  told  me  all  about 
it,  and  told  me  how  she  was  always  set  down  for  a  witch  in 


304  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Windsor,  and  how,  ever  since  she'd  been  in  Springfield, 
we'd  had  the  strangest  lights  in  the  meadows  over  the 
river — blue  ones,  and  green  ones,  and  red  ones — and — I 
don't  know — there  was  a  great  many  things  she  said,  but  I 
can't  remember  them." 

"What  was  it  about  the  grudging  of  other  people's 
children  ?" 

"  It  is  just  as  he  said,"  replied  the  woman,  "  about  the 
grudging,  and  the  child  and  the  cow  dying  at  the  same 
time." 

"  And  you  have  no  doubt  that  she  told  you  these  things 
expecting  and  intending  that  you  should  believe  them  ?" 

"  Not  any." 

"  And  you  have  reported  all  about  the  neighborhood, 
I  suppose,  that  Mary  Parsons  told  you  these  things,  and 
done  all  you  could  to  make  the  widow  Marshfield  suspected 
for  a  witch." 

"  I  have  told  you  all  I  know  about  it,"  said  the  witness, 
sharply. 

"  Very  well — you  can  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon. 
Then,  addressing  Mary,  he  said,  "  What  have  you  to  say 
to  this  testimony  ?" 

"  I  say  that  it  is  a  downright  lie,"  replied  Mary,  stamp 
ing  her  foot  decidedly. 

"  Do  you  say  that  you  have  said  none  of  these  things 
that  they  have  testified  to  as  your  statements  ?" 

"I  said  what  I  said,"  replied  Mary,  her  eyes  flashing 
angrily,  "  to  a  couple  of  fools  about  a  woman  who  hated 
me,  and  who  had  made  them  believe  that  I  was  a  witch 
myself.  I  said  it  not  because  I  cared  anything  about  the 
woman  or  her  slanders,  nor  because  I  supposed  they  were 
going  to  believe  me  in  earnest  in  what  I  said.  I  said  it 
laughing  all  the  time — -just  to  show  them  how  easy  it  was 
to  lie  about  people,  if  one  had  the  mind,  and  that  I  could 
say  'witch'  as  easy  as  anybody  else  could.  They  have 


THE     BAT     PATH.  305 

said  many  things  that  are  absolutely  false,  and  what  they 
have  repeated  from  me  was  said  with  no  intention  of  injur 
ing  anybody." 

"  Then  it  is  not  all  a  downright  lie." 

"  It  is,  as  they  have  given  it." 

"  I  notice,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  looking  around  the  room, 
"  that  we  have  a  greater  number  present  than  is  usual  at 
trials  of  this  kind,  and  if  Mr.  Moxon  or  any  officers  of  the 
church  present  wish  to  make  any  remarks  in  reference  to 
this  case,  they  can  have  the  liberty." 

Mr.  Moxon  rose  partly  from  his  seat,  and  then  the 
thought  of  what  he  had  promised  Woodcock  many  years 
previously,  struck  him,  and  he  sat  down,  and  bowed  to 
Deacon  Chapin. 

The  deacon  was  conscientiously  opposed  to  the  practice 
of  slander  as  it  existed  in  many  of  the  Puritan  communities, 
and  it  was  his  policy  to  crush  it  with  an  iron  heel.  So  he 
rose  with  a  good  deal  of  alacrity  to  say  that  it  seemed  to 
him  that  a  clear  case,  and  a  very  aggravated  case,  of 
slander,  had  been  made  out ;  and,  for  one,  he  hoped  that 
at  least  exemplary  punishment  would  be  administered  to 
the  offender,  who,  it  seemed  to  him,  carried  a  very  haughty 
and  froward  spirit.  Such  matters  were  treated  at  the  Bay 
with  great  severity,  as  the  only  true  policy.  He  wished 
that  the  magistrate,  whose  moderation  all  knew  and  ad 
mired,  would  yet  see  it  in  the  line  of  his  duty  to  deal  more 
severely  and  effectively  with  these  little  sins,  than  it  had 
previously  appeared  proper  for  him  to  deal.  He  thought, 
too,  that  a  woman  of  the  widow  Marshfi eld's  respectability, 
situated  somewhat  defenselessly,  as  she  was,  personally,  had 
peculiar  claims  upon  the  protection  of  the  law. 

The  magistrate  then  asked  Mr.  Holyoke'if  he  had  any 
remarks  to  offer. 

"  Not  at  present,"  replied  that  gentleman.  "  I  have  no 
wish  to  interfere  with  the  strict  operation  of  the  law  in  this 


306  THE     BAY     PATH. 

case,  or  in  any  other ;  or  to  influence  the  magistrate's  de 
cision  in  the  slightest  degree.  He  is  bound  by  his  oath  to 
administer  the  law,  and  the  case — a  very  frivolous  one  it 
appears  to  me — is  before  him.  If,  when  the  decision  is 
rendered,  there  are  any  who  would  like  to  hear  what  I  have 
to  say,  I  shall  have  no  objection  to  speaking  very  plainly 
upon  the  subject." 

As  Mr.  Holyoke  resumed  his  seat,  -the  magistrate  turned 
to  the  prisoner,  and  bade  her  rise  and  receive  her  sentence. 
Mary  now  grew  pale  and  trembling  for  the  first  time  during 
the  trial,  and  pressed  against  her  heart  with  both  hands, 
while  poor  Hugh  hung  his  head,  and  wrung  his  hands  in 
the  profoundest  distress.  "Mary  Parsons,"  said  Mr. Pynchon, 
"  I  find  you  guilty  of  defaming  the  good  name  of  the  widow 
Marshfield,  and  I  sentence  you  to  be  well  whipped  on  the 
morning  after  lecture,  with  twenty  lashes  by  the  consta 
ble—" 

Mary  stood  and  heard  him  thus  far,  and  then  uttered  a 
scream  so  shrill  and  terrible,  so  charged  with  intense  agony 
— that  it  brought  nearly  all  the  individuals  in  the  room 
upon  their  feet,-  and  thrilled  them  with  a  terrible  shudder. 
But  there  stood  Mary  still,  her  eyes  strained  wildly  open, 
but  horribly  vacant  and  meaningless. 

Hugh  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  cried  like  a  child — 
cried  as  if  his  warm  and  womanish  heart  had  been  swept 
by  the  fiercest  breath  of  desolation,  and  his  nicely  strung 
sensibilities  thrown  into  irredeemable  discord.  The  sen 
tence  was  a  crown  of  thorns  to  the  phantom  of  her  fears, 
and  as  it  was  pressed  down,  her  heart  gave  way,  and  she 
fell  for  the  moment  into  a  wild,  hysterical  insanity. 

"Except  you  pay,"  continued  the  magistrate,  in  con 
cluding  his  sentence,  after  the  momentary  interruption  and 
excitement  were  past,  "  to  the  widow  Marshfield  the  sum  of 
three  pounds,  in  satisfaction  of  the  damages  inflicted  by  you 
upon  her  reputation." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  307 

As  he  concluded,  Mary  still  stood,  looking  vacantly  at 
him.  Immediately  Mr.  Holyoke  arose,  and,  advancing  to 
the  desk,  commenced  to  count  out  the  amount  of  her  fine. 
This  she  seemed  to  comprehend,  for  she  turned  and  said, 
"  Hugh,  if  there's  money  to  pay,  pay  it." 

"  Have  you  money  to  pay  the  fine,  Hugh  ?"  inquired  the 
magistrate.  • 

"  I  have,''  replied  the  poor  fellow,  going  forward  and 
placing  his  heavy  purse  upon  the  desk. 

As  the  sum  of  the  fine  was  counted  out,  there  was  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders  among  the  audience,  a  general  whisper  and 
a  stare,  of  wonder.  Holyoke's  movement,  too,  combined 
with  the  altogether  unlocked  for  exhibition  of  sensibility  on 
the  part  of  the  prisoner  and  her  husband,  had  turned  the 
current  of  sympathy  for  the  moment  into  a  new  channel. 
The  spirited  widow  saw  only  averted  or  vacant  eyes  annmd 
her,  and  felt  greatly  uneasy  with  the  cheaply  gotten  gold. 

As  soon  as  the  fine  had  been  counted  out  from  Hugh's 
purse,  and  the  remainder  handed  back  to  him,  he  took 
Mary  by  the  arm,  and  endeavored  to  lead  her  away.  As 
the  magistrate  saAV  that  she  hesitated,  he  told  her  that  she 
was  at  liberty,  and  with  some  hesitation,  as  if  she  but  dimly 
comprehended  the  fact  of  her  release,  she  suffered  Hugh  to 
lead  her  from  the  apartment.* 

*  At  the  risk  of  the  loss  of  credit  for  originality,  the  report  of  this 
trial,  as  it  appears  in  the  Pynchon  Record  Book,  is  subjoined,  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  that  no  exaggerations  have  been  made,  and  that  the 
picture  is  a  true  one.  It  is  verbatim,  with  the  exception  of  two  illegible 
words,  indicated  by  asterisks: 

"  The  Widdow  Marshfield  complained  against  Mary,  the  wife  of  Hugh 
Pal-sons,  of  Springfield,  for  reporting  her  to  be  suspected  for  a  witch, 
and  she  produced  Jo.  Matthews  and  his  wife  for  her  witnesses,  who  were 
examined  upon  oath. 

"  Jo.  Matthews  said  that  Mary  Parsons  tould  him  how  she  was 
taught  to  try  a  witch  by  a  widdow  woman  that  now  lived  in  Spring 
field,  and  that  she  had  lived  in  Windsor,  and  that  she  had  3  children 
and  that  one  of  them  was  married,  <fc,  at  last,  she  said  it  was  the  wid- 


308  THE     BAT     PATH. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  the  distressed  pair,  Holyoke, 
who  had  not  resumed  his  seat,  pointed  at  their  retreating 
figures,  and  said  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  You  have  had  an 
exhibition  of  law.  Do  you  call  it  justice  ?  Here  is  a  poor 
girl  who  had  the  misfortune  to  have  a  father  made  law 
less  by  law,  and  who  has  been  for  years  a  most  offenceless 
object  of  suspicion  in  this  plantation.  She  was  complained 
of  by  a  woman  who  I  very  well  know  has  slandered  her ; 
and  testified  against  by  individuals  who  richly  deserve  the 
punishment  she  has  received,  for  reporting  and  garbling  her 
idle  words.  She  is  brought  here  by  law,  shocked  into 
insanity  by  law,  has  paid  a  fine  according  to  law^  and  has 
been  wounded  irrecoverably  in  her  feelings  by  law.  If  this 
is  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  the  Bay,  I  pray  God  the 
Bay  Path  may  be  obliterated,  that  no  more  of  the  spirit 

(low  Marshfield.  Jo.  Matthews  answered  her  that  he  believed  no  such 
thing  of  her ;  but,  whereuppon  said  he,  Mary  Parsons  replied — -you  need 
not  speak  so  much  for  Goody  Marshfield,  for  I  am  sure  (said  she)  she 
hath  envied  every  woman's  child  in  ye  ****  till  her  own  daughter  had 
a  child,  and  then,  said  she,  ye  child  died  and  ye  cow  died,  and  I  am  per 
suaded,  said  she,  they  were  bewitched;  and  she  said  moreover  it  was 
remarked  to  her  by  one  in  town  that  she  was  suspected  to  be  a  witch 
when  she  lived  in  "Windsor,  and  that  it  was  publickly  known  that  the 
Devill  followed  her  house  in  Windsor,  and  for  aught  I  know,  says  she, 
follows  her  here. 

"  (ioodwife  Matthews  saith  upon  oath  that  when  Goody  Parsons  came 
to  her  house  she  said  to  her — I  wonder  what  is  become  of  the  half  pound 
of  Veall — Goody  Parsons  said  that  she  could  not  tell,  except  the  witch 
had  witcht  it  away.  I  wonder,  said  I,  that  you  talk  so  much  of  a  witch. 
Doo  you  think  there  is  any  witch  in  towne  ?  Yes,  said  she,  and  she 
came  into  my  house  when  the  wooll  was  a  cardinge.  Who  is  it?  said  I. 
She  said  that  Mr.  Stebbinge  had  told  her  in  Mr.  Smith's  chamber,  that 
she  was  suspected  to  be  a  witch  in  Windsor,  and  that  there  were  divers 
strange  lights  seen  of  late  in  the  nieddow  that  were  never  seen  before 
the  widdow  Marshfield  came  to  town,  and  that  she  did  grudge  at  other 
women  that  had  children,  for  her  daughter  had  none,  and  about  that 
time  (namely  of  her  grudging,)  ye  child  died  and  ye  cow  died. 

"  Goody  Parsons  did  stiffly  deny  the  truth  of  these  testimonys :  but  as 
the  said  witnesses  had  delivered  their  testimony  upon  oath,  and  finding 
that  she  had  defamed  ye  good  name  of  the  widdow  Marshfield,  I  sen 
tenced  her  to  be  we.l  whipped  on  the  morrow  after  lecture  with  20 
lashes  by  the  constable,  unless  she  could  procure  the  payment  of  £3  to 
ye  widow  Marshfield,  for  and  ***  the  reputation  of  her  good  name." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  309 

reach  us.  I  believe  this  whole  system  of  brutal  punish 
ments  for  inferior  crimes,  and  all  these  nicely  drawn  laws 
against  the  venial  sins  of  imperfect  communities,  are  infernal 
— unworthy  of  a  Christian  people,  and  demoralizing  to 
every  one  living  under,  or  in  association  with  them.  I  do 
not  speak  reproachfully  of  the  magistrate,  or  condemnatory 
of  his  decision.  He  has  acted  in  accordance  with  his  oath, 
and  as  you  all  cannot  help  but  know,  against  his  inclina 
tions." 

During  this  brief  and  impassioned  speech,  each  word  of 
which  seemed  to  burn  into  every  one's  ears  with  a  strange, 
irresistible  power,  and  to  sweep  away  from  every  eye  the 
mists  of  prejudice  and  error,  Mr.  Pynchon  sat  with  his 
head  leaning  upon  his  hand.  At  its  close,  one  after  another 
rose  and  left  the  house,  until,  at  last,  Holyoke  and  his 
father-in-law  were  left  together.  "  Elizur,"  said  the  old  man, 
raising  his  head  and  extending  his  hand,  "  you  are  nobly 
right,  and  if  you  could  only  know  how  wholly  sick  I  am  of 
this  poor  business  of  dealing  out  justice  according  to  law 
you  would  pity  me." 

Holyoke  had  said  what  he  had  to  say,  and,  with  a  sad 
and  indignant  heart,  walked  homewards,  to  tell  his  wife  of 
the  disgrace  and  suffering  of  her  protegee,  and  to  think  of, 
and  labor  and  pray  for,  a  reformation  in  public  sentiment, 
and  its  liberal  expression  in  the  colonial  statutes. 

Poor  Hugh  and  Mary,  in  their  deep  distress,  walked 
home  regardless  of  the  observation  they  elicited  on  the  way, 
and  entered  their  dwelling — once  the  brightest  spot  to  them 
in  all  the  world — now  dark,  spiritless,  and  gloomy.  Mary 
had  hardly  taken  a  seat  before  a  terrible  chill  assailed  her, 
and  in  a  few  hours  Hugh  was  sitting  at  her  bedside,  wetting 
her  parched  lips  and  bathing  her  throbbing  temples,  and 
heaving  sighs  and  dropping  tears  of  distress,  as  he  listened 
to  her  incoherent  ravings. 

As  Hugh  sat  like  a  patient  girl,  watching  by  the  bedside 


310  THE     BAY     PATH. 

of  his  wife,  day  after  day,  and  saw  her  spirit  broken  down  by 
shame  and  sickness,  and  witnessed  the  wasting  of  her  noble 
form,  and  the  falling  of  the  rose  leaves  from  her  cheeks; 
and  as  he  nursed  her  in  impatience  and  petulance,  during  the 
protracted  period  of  her  convalescence,  Mr.  Moxon,  instead 
of  visiting  her,  rose  from  his  table  a  dozen  times  in  a  day, 
and  asked  the  question  :  "  Where  did  she  get  that  money .?" 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IF  Mr.  Pynchon  really  supposed  that  time  and  a  more 
extended  examination  of  his  book  would  palliate  the  harsh 
judgments  that  had  been  rendered  upon  it  by  the  leading 
men  of  the  Bay,  he  was  doomed  to  a  grievous  disappoint 
ment  :  for  the  winter,  spring,  and  summer  passed  by,  and 
the  clamor  concerning  it  only  subsided  to  give  place  to  a 
settled  determination  that  the  book  should  be  condemned 
by  the  highest  tribunal  in  the  colony,  and  the  author  dis 
graced  in  every  practicable  manner. 

This  was  not  unanticipated  by  the  people  of  the  settle 
ment,  who,  in  order  to  give  him  such  aid  as  he  might  desire 
in  the  General  Court,  consulted  him  in  regard  to  their  se 
lection  of  a  deputy  to  attend  that  body.  He  frankly  indi 
cated  his  preference  for  Mr.  Holyoke  of  Lynn,  the  father  of 
his  son-in-law,  and  that  gentleman  was  returned  by  the 
unanimous  votes  of  the  freemen. 

When  Mr.  Pynchon  set  out  for  the  Bay,  he  was  accom 
panied  by  his  son  John,  and  by  several  of  the  leading  men 
of  the  town,  who  went  down  to  make  interest  for  one  who 
was  bound  to  them  by  so  many  relations  and  associations, 
but  all  departed  with  sad  forebodings.  The  trees  that  hung 
over  the  Bay  Path,  blushing  with  the  surprises  of  the  first 
frost,  never  canopied  a  more  silent  company  of  travellers. 
Here  and  there,  some  shrub  or  vine  had  shed  down  its 
shower  of  foliage  in  radiant  flakes,  until  it  lay  fetlock  deep 
upon  the  ground  ;  but  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  brushing  it 
and  crushing  it,  scarcely  broke  the  thread  of  league-long 
reveries.  The  squirrel  chattered  upon  the  bough  ;  the  blue 


312  THE     BAT     PATH. 

jay  chided  the  dull-eared  silence  that  lay  dreaming  among 
crickets,  under  the  forest  arches  ;  coveys  of  partridges,  like 
well  delivered  files  of  musketry,  discharged  by  single  birds 
their  platoons  of  sound,  and  rolled  off  among  the  trees ; 
the  startled  deer  leaped  from  his  roadside  cover,  with  tan 
gling  vines  upon  his  antlers,  and  with  them  wildly  streaming 
over  his  back  bounded  away  as  if  he  were  a  pet  tricked 
out  for  a  holiday ;  and  the  wild  turkey  called  to  his  mates, 
or  some  answering  stranger,  far  out  among  the  hills.  But 
all  these  sights  and  sounds  were  unheeded  by  the  men  who 
felt  the  importance  of  the  stake  involved  in  the  events  that 
awaited  them  at  the  termination  of  their  journey. 

On  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Pynchon  and  his  friends  at  Boston, 
they  became  immediately  aware  that  their  worst  fears  were 
about  to  be  realized.  The  magistrate  was  treated  wher 
ever  he  appeared  with  entire  neglect,  and  not  unfrequently 
with  marked  discourtesy.  Everybody  seemed  to  regard 
him  as  one  whose  fate  was  sealed,  and  as  one  with  whose 
fortunes  no  one  could  be  identified  without  detriment  of 
personal  character  and  business  or  political  prospects. 

He  entered  the  chamber  occupied  by  the  magistrates, 
and  took  his  seat,  only  to  hear  an  order,  just  sent  up  from 
the  deputies,  read  and  passed,  that  a  protest  against  the 
doctrines  of  his  book  should  be  drawn  up  to  satisfy  all  ;nen 
that  the  Court  not  only  did  not  approve  them,  but  that  it 
disliked  and  detested  them ;  that  one  of  the  ministers  of 
the  colony  should  be  appointed  to  refute  the  errors  of  the 
book ;  that  the  author  should  be  summoned  before  the  next 
General  Court  to  answer  for  the  promulgation  of  his  here 
sies  ;  and  that  the  book  itself  should  be  burned  by  the  exe 
cutioner  in  the  market-place  at  Boston,  on  the  following 
day,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  lecture. 

This  order  was  the  consummation  of  his  worst  fears,  and 
deeply  offended,  and  still  more  deeply  wounded  at  heart, 
he  rose  in  his  place,  and  exclaimed  :  "  May  God  forgive  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  313 

malice  of  the  author  of  this  order,  and  the  cruel  blindness 
of  those  who  have  passed  it !  I  pronounce  it  an  outrage 
upon  the  rights  of  human  reason,  a  denial  of  the  liberty 
wherewith  Christ  maketh  his  disciples  free,  an  offence  against 
conscience,  and  a  sin  against  God." 

As  Mr.  Pynchon  slowly  measured  his  language,  quick, 
angry  glances  crossed  the  room,  among  his  associates,  and, 
save  for  the  assumption  of  the  floor  by  a  cool  and  impertur 
bable  member,  he  would  have  been  assailed  by  harsh  and 
bitter  language :  but  the  speaker  who  rose  in  response 
begged  the  magistrates  to  make  all  due  allowance  to  one 
who  had  momentarily  given  way  to  a  very  natural  excite 
ment,  and  then  suggested  to  Mr.  Pynchon  the  propriety  of 
his  withdrawal  from  the  room,  as  further  action  upon  his 
case  would  doubtless  follow,  and  he  might  possibly  be  led 
into  imprudences  that  he  would  regret. 

Mr.  Pynchon  proudly  looked  the  man  in  the  face  until 
he  sat  down,  and  then  calmly  surveying  the  room,  said, — "  I 
have  been  an  adviser  hi  this  body  since  the  establishment 
of  the  colony,  touching  the  affairs  of  the  colony  and  the 
administration  of  justice,  but  neither  this  body,  nor  any  one 
of  its  members,  has  been  constituted  my  adviser.  Under 
God,  I  am  my  own  keeper,  and  though  this  Court  may 
deal  grievously  with  me  in  my  person,  station,  and  estate,  I 
have  the  privilege,  as  I  shall  take  the  liberty,  of  watching 
the  sword  that  is  thrust  at  me,  both  in  this  and  the  second 
house,  that  no  unfair  advantage  be  taken  of  my  unwariness. 
Save  the  Governor  and  his  honorable  deputy,  I  am  to-day 
the  peer  of  any  man  in  this  chamber,  and  I  challenge  the 
respect  due  in  everything  to  myself  as  an  honorable  gentle 
man,  and  an  assistant  in  the  government  of  this  colony.  I 
have  neither  been  displaced  nor  disgraced.  Neither  im 
peachment  nor  proscription  has  been^  visited  upon  me. 
Happily,  injustice  is  not  dishonor;  and  truth — blessed  be 
God ! — does  not  depend  for  its  authenticity,  vitality,  and 

14 


314  THE     BAY     PATH. 

power,  on  the  breath  of  the  General  Court  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts !" 

Thus  outspoke  the  man  at  last.  The  book  Avhich  he  had 
written  committed  him  before  the  world  to  his  own  opinions, 
and  when  he  felt  the  consequences  of  the  clash  with  the 
straitened  creed  that  cramped  the  minds  around  him,  the 
chains  that  had  been  upon  him  for  long  years  fell  off,  and 
he  stood  in  his  own  Christian  manhood,  and  felt  himself  to 
be  stronger  than  ever  in  his  life  before.  The  fear  of  man 
had  passed  away.  The  fear  for  the  interest  of  truth  had  van 
ished  before  the  conviction  that  truth  was  able  to  stand  of 
itself.  He  stood  upon  a  "height  from  which  the  bigotry 
around  him  seemed  so  contemptible  that,  while  he  proudly 
claimed  the  honors  due  to  his  position,  he  regarded  with 
pity  those  who  associated  with  him.  He  felt  that,  in  how 
ever  false  a  position  he  might  be  placed  before  the  Chris 
tians  of  the  Englands,  Old  and  New,  he  was  a  freer  man,  a 
larger  Christian,  and  a  better  magistrate,  for  having  given 
a  thorough  expression  of  himself — for  asserting  his  own 
reason — for  vindicating  his  own  independence." 

Previous  to  the  scene  which  has  been  thus  briefly  de 
scribed,  quite  as  exciting  and  interesting  a  one  had  trans 
pired  in  the  House  of  Deputies.  The  order  which  had  been 
sent  up  for  the  concurrence  of  the  magistrates  covered 
really  the  whole  ground  of  proceedings  which  it  was  pro 
posed  to  institute  against  the  heretical  bookmaker  ;  and  it 
was  upon  this  order  that  a  struggle  most  unusual  was  made. 

The  general  knowledge  that  the  case  would  come  on 
filled  the  hall  with  spectators,  among  whom  were  many  of 
the  reverend  elders  of  the  colony,  who  came  in  to  watch 
the  operations  of  the  deputies — partly  from  curiosity,  partly 
from  a  wish  to  encourage  the  timid  to  stand  boldy  by  their 
duty,  and  partly,  doubtless,  to  impress  them  with  a  due 
sense  of  the  importance  of  a  faithful  performance  of  the  same. 

Among  them,  conspicuously,  were  Mr.  John  Cotton  of 


THE     BAY     P  ATH  .  315 

Boston,  and  Mr.  John  Norton  of  Ipswich,  the  latter  one 
of  the  most  learned  men  and  able  controvertists  in  the 
colony.  All  of  them  had  a  scent  for  heresy  so  subtle  and 
acute  that  they  could  discover  it  lying  perdu  beneath  a 
word,  or  smell  it  in  a  puff  of  air  awakened  by  a  flourishing 
figure  of  speech.  They  were  great,  gaunt,  keen-eyed, 
learned,  self-devoted,  powerful  men  of  God,  with  more 
religion  of  intellect  than  thorough  spirituality,  and  more 
zeal  for  doctrine  than  care  for  the  nourishment  of  the 
Christian  affections.  This  occasion  was  one  which  called 
them  out  from  their  studies,  and  gave  them  exciting  food 
for  thought  and  discussion ;  and  if  their  care  for  the  inte 
rests  of  orthodoxy  was  sometimes  merged  in  the  seductive 
delights  of  controversy,  it  would  prove  only  that  nature 
and  grace  made  men  and  Christians  then  as  they  very  fre 
quently  do  at  the  present  day. 

The  deputy  who  offered  the  order,  made  a  speech  con 
taining  no  small  amount  of  personal  abuse.  He  felt  that  he 
could  do  this  with  perfect  safety,  as  he  knew  that  the  sym 
pathy  of  four-fifths  of  the  members  was  with  him,  and  that 
of  the  whole  of  the  audience.  He  spoke  of  the  impudence 
of  a  man  like  Mr.  Pynchon — a  learned  fur-dealer,  as  he 
was  pleased  to  call  him — in  assuming  to  interpret  the  ora 
cles  of  God,  and  especially  in  controverting  the  doctrines 
held  by  the  New  England  churches,  and  expounded  by 
such  learned  and  orthodox  divines  as  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  in  the  house  on  that  occasion.  He  spoke  of  the 
damage  that  must  inevitably  result  to  the  cause  of  true 
religion,  from  the  attack  upon  it  of  one  who  had  been  mis 
takenly  honored  by  a  seat  among  the  magistrates.  He 
challenged  the  friends  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  if  any  such  there 
might  be  among  the  deputies,  to  undertake  his  defence — to 
have  the  hardihood  to  do  it — to  place  themselves  on  record 
as  having  done  it — to  disgrace  themselves  before  the  Chris 
tian  world  by  doing  it. 


316  THE     BAY     PATH. 

All  this  was  said,  and  much  more  of  the  same  import, 
with  very  slight  allusions  to  the  real  merits  of  the  book 
which  the  order,  in  effect,  condemned.  The  heretical  cha 
racter  of  the  book  seemed  to  be  taken  for  granted.  The 
ministers  had  preached  upon  it,  and  condemned  it  from 
their  pulpits.  It  had  been  discussed  in  private  circles,  and 
condemned  there.  There  was  no  voice  raised  in  its  behalf. 
When  the  member  took  his  seat,  he  looked  around  with  a 
triumphant  air,  as  if  he  supposed  no  one  would  answer  him ; 
but  he  was  disappointed,  in  a  manner  which  showed  that 
Mr.  Pynchon  was  not  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  the  man 
he  had  selected  to  guard  his  interests  and  character  in  that 
house. 

Mr.  Holyoke  rose  amid  whispers,  and  sneers,  and  poorly 
disguised  laughter,  to  reply,  and,  addressing  the  speaker, 
said :  "  About  twenty  years  ago,  a  worthy  gentleman  of 
education,  living  comparatively  at  his  ease  in  England, 
became  one  of  the  patentees  of  the  colony  of  Massachusetts 
Bay ;  and  in  England,  and  New  England,  has  been  a  ma 
gistrate,  and  assistant  in  the  government  of  the  colony  ever 
since.  He  has  been  connected  with  all  its  affairs,  has  had, 
at  times,  the  charge  of  its  treasury,  and  has  labored  amid 
great  discouragements  and  discomforts  for  its  welfare.  On 
arriving  in  this  country,  he  founded  a  settlement  of  import 
ance,  which  to-day  has  its  representative  in  this  house ;  and 
when  that  settlement  had  passed  through  the  dangerous 
period  of  its  infancy,  he  took  with  him  a  chosen  band  of 
companions,  and  sought  a  new  home  in  the  wilderness. 
The  fields  that  he  planted  lie  along  the  banks  of  the  Con 
necticut,  and  there  are  the  houses  which  he  builded.  He 
has  been  there  these  many  years — the  leader,  father,  magis 
trate  of  his  people — loyal  to  this  jurisdiction,  though  almost 
joined  to  the  people  of  the  South ;  and  between  his  duties 
there  and  at  the  Bay,  has  spent  his  time  and  strength  among 
the  fatigues  and  dangers  of  long  passages  through  the 


THE     BAY     PAT  II.  317 

forest.  In  every  relation  which  this  man  has  sustained — 
public  and  private,  legislative  and  judicial — he  has  done 
honor  to  himself  and  the  colony.  As  a  member  of  the 
church  of  Christ,  his  life  has  been  blameless.  As  a  man 
bearing  heavy  responsibilities,  he  has  never  failed  in  his 
duty.  He  has  never  abused  a  public  or  private  trust.  A 
wise  legislator,  a  just  judge,  a  consistent  Christian,  a  ready 
counsellor,  a  true  friend,  a  lover  and  supporter  of  order,  and 
an  honest,  noble  man,  he  has  lived  without  suspicion  or  re 
proach.  And  this  is  the  man — good,  noble,  venerable  as  he 
is — the  abuse  of  whom  has  been  so  grossly  indulged  in,  and 
so  heartily  enjoyed  in  this  house  to-day !  I  envy  not  the 
hand  that  dispenses,  nor  the  maw  that  accepts,  such  mise 
rable  slanders  and  such  unchristian  calumnies  as  human 
food."( 

The  concluding  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  con 
temptuous  indignation,  and  produced  a  most  decided  sensa 
tion  among  spectators  as  well  as  members.  The  speaker 
paused  for  a  minute,  amid  profound  silence,  and  then  con 
tinued  : 

"  What  is  it  proposed  to  do  with  this  man  ?  It  is  pro 
posed  to  disgrace  him — to  ruin  him,  for  what  is,  at  worst 
and  most,  an  error  of  judgment.  To  his  thorough  Christian 
disposition,  his  life  testifies ;  and  this  life  of  his,  so  pure,  and 
devoted,  and  noble,  has  confirmed  to  him,  or  should  confirm 
to  him,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Christian  world,  the  right  to  form 
opinions  upon  Ctiristian  doctrine  and  the  privilege  to  pro 
pound  them.  The  Christianity  which  makes  a  man  a  true 
Christian — which  controls  his  life,  and  sanctifies  his  affec 
tions,  and  builds  him  up  into  a  saintly  estate,  growing  more 
holy  with  more  years,  and  more  meek  with  more  honors,  is 
a  Christianity  good  enough  for  me,  good  enough  for  the 
world,  and  good  enough  to  teach.  And  when  new  opinions 
come  from  good  sources,  it  is  rather  the  dictate  of  Christian 
modesty  to  examine  them  with  prayerful  attention,  than 


318  THE     BAY     PATH. 

boldly  to  condemn  them  and  their  author,  because  they  run 
counter  to  the  common  judgment.  Has  it  not  always  been 
the  few  who  have  held  the  right  ?  Has  not  the  common 
judgment  been  wrong,  in  all  this  world's  history?  Shall 
we  sit  in  judgment  on  one  of  Christ's  disciples?  Have  we 
more  wisdom  than  he  ?  Have  we  more  grace  ?  Have  we 
lived  better  lives?  Has  God  committed  judgment  into  our 
hands?  Are  we  infallible?  Do  we,  as  a  political  body, 
assume  the  interpretation  of  the  Scriptures  by  any  power 
received  of  men  or  of  God  ?  I  tell  this  House  of  Deputies 
that  they  are  doing,  or  trying  to  do,  a  very  fearful  thing. 
I  tell  them  not  to  lay  their  hands  on  this  man,  lest  they 
touch  one  of  God's  anointed.  I  tell  them  to  refrain  from 
this  man,  and  let  him  alone,  for  if  this  counsel  or  this  work 
be  of  men  it  will  come  to  naught ;  but  if  it  be  of  God,  they 
cannot  overthrow  it ;  lest  haply  they  be  found  even  to  fight 
against  God. 

"  We  have  come  to  this  country,  nominally  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  liberty  of  conscience,  the  liberty  of  speech,  and 
the  liberty  of  action ;  but  what  liberty  is  that  which  is  led 
bound  at  the  wheels  of  state,  or  stands  captive  at  the  pillars 
of  the  pulpit  ?  The  liberty  which  is  most  in  exercise  here 
to-day,  is  the  libei'ty  to  oppress  conscience.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  liberty  of  conscience,  aside  from  perfect  indi 
vidual  liberty ;  and  the  restraint  of  this,  is  oppression  no 
different  in  kind,  no  less  outrageous,  than  that  exercised  at 
home,  or  even  in  the  den  of  The  Beast  himself,  at  Rome. 
I  tell  you  that  if  this  man  be  condemned  for  the  utterance 
of  his  religious  opinions  by  this  body,  which  has  legiti 
mately  no  more  to  do  with  them  than  a  council  of  savages, 
the  world — aye — the  devil  himself,  may  have  us  in  derision, 
and  pointing,  say,  '  behold  how  these  Christians  love  one 
another !' 

"  I  see  present  here,  to-day,  several  ministers  of  the  Gos 
pel  of  Jesus  Christ.  It  cannot  be  that  they  have  been 


THE     BAY     PATH.  319 

brought  here  from  any  desire  to  see  an  independant  thinker 
and  writer  sacrifised  ;  and  I  only  wish  that  it  were  conso 
nant  with  the  rules  of  this  body  for  them  to  rise  here,  and 
testify  to  the  paramount  importance  of  a  Christian  life,  and 
the  essential  necessity  to  vital  Christianity  of  entire  liberty 
of  conscience.  I  wish  that  they  might  rise  here,  and,  in 
their  own  eloquent  words,  point  forward  to  that  trial  and 
tribunal  to  which  we  all  tend,  where  the  question  will  not 
be  in  regard  to  what  church  a  man  belongs,  what  creed  he 
subscribes,  what  dogmas  he  adopts,  what  opinions  he  holds, 
but  will  be  concerning  the  improvement  of  the  one  talent, 
or  the  ten  talents,  with  which  he  has  been  intrusted.  I 
pray  that  we  may  stand  blameless  of  any  violence  upon  his 
rights,  or  wounds  upon  his  reputation." 

Mr.  Holyoke  sat  down,  and,  at  the  moment,  his  audience 
had  forgotten  where  and  what  they  were.  A  principle 
which  they  had  never  recognised,  or  had  long  forgotten, 
had  sprung  into  life  before  them,  and  they  were  struck  with 
its  marvellous  power  and  beauty.  The  idea  that  a  man 
could  possibly  be  good,  and  yet  fail  to  be  orthodox  after 
their  pattern — that  life  was  something  higher  than  light — 
that  character  was  something  more  essential  than  opinion — 
and  its  correlative,  that,  with  all  their  orthodoxy,  they 
might  possibly  be  destitute  of  true  Christianity,  received 
for  the  moment  the  homage  of  their  reason,  and  threw 
the  materials  of  the  world  in  which  they  moved  into  new 
positions  and  new  relations.  The  revelation  was,  however, 
but  momentary.  The  spell  passed  away  before  the  cool 
breath  of  spite,  and  the  hot  words  of  zeal  which  responded ; 
and  when  the  vote  was  taken,  only  five  of  the  whole  num 
ber  of  deputies  were  enrolled  with  Mr.  Holyoke  among 
the  dissentients.  But  the  eifect  of  his  words  could  not 
wholly  die.  Such  seed  is  never  sown  in  vain. 

As  soon  as  the  order  was  passed,  the  declaration,  or  pro 
test,  for  which  it  provided,  \vas  introduced  and  read,  and 


320  THE     BAY     PATH. 

the  deputies  and  reverend  elders  bent  their  heads  to  hear 
its  language : 

*  "  The  General  Court  now  sitting  in  Boston  in  New 
England,   this    sixteenth    of  October,   1650.      There    was. 
brought   to   our  hands   a  book,  written,  as  therein   sub 
scribed,  by  William  Pynchon,  Gent.,  in  New   England, 
entitled  The  Meritorious  Price  of  our  Redemption,  Justi 
fication,  t£c.,  clearing  it  from  some  common  errors,  <&c., 
which  book,  containing  many  errors  and  heresies  generally 
condemned  by  all  orthodox  writers  that  we  have  met  with, 
we  have  judged  it  meet  and  necessary  for  vindication  of  the 
truth,  so  far  as  in  us  lies,  as  also  to  keep  and  preserve  the 
people  here  committed  to  our  care  and  trust,  in  the  true 
knowledge  and  faith  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  of  our 
own  redemption  by  him,  as  also  for  the  clearing  of  ourselves 
to  our  Christian  brethren  and  others  in  England,  (where 
this  book  was  printed,  and  is  dispersed,)  hereby  to  protest 
our  innocency,  as  being  neither  parties  nor  privy  to  the 
writing,  composing,  printing,  nor  divulging  thereof;   but 
that,  on  the  contrary,  we  detest  and  abhor  many  of  the 
opinions   and   assertions  therein,  as  false,   erroneous,  and 
heretical ;   yea,  and  whatsoever  is  contained  in  the  said 
book  which  are  contrary  to  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testament,  and  the  general  received  doctrine  of  the 
orthodox  churches  extant  since  the  time  of  the  last  and 
best  reformation  ;  and  for  proof  and  evidence  of  our  sincere 
and  plain  meaning  therein,  we  do  condemn  the  said  book 
to  be  burned  in  the  market-place,  at  Boston,  by  the  com 
mon  executioner,  and  do  purpose  with  all  convenient  speed 
to  convent  the  said  William  Pynchon  before  authority,  to 
find  out  whether  the  said  William  Pynchon  will  own  the 
said  book  to  be  his  or  not ;  which,  if  he  doth,  we  purpose 
(God  willing)  to  proceed  with  him  according  to  his  de 
merits,  unless  he  retract  the  same,  and  give  full  satisfaction, 
both  here  and  by  some  second  writing,  to  be  printed  and 
dispersed  in  England ;  all  which  we  thought  needful  for  the 
reason  above  alleged,  to  make  known  by  this  short  protesta 
tion  and  declaration.     Also,  we  further  purpose,  with  what 
convenient  speed  we  may,  to  appoint  some  fit  person  to 

*  Copied  from  the  Colonial  Records,  Vol.  iii.,   p.  215.     The  ortho 
graphy  is  modernized. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  321 

make  a  particular  answer  to  all  material  and  controversial 
passages  in  the  said  book,  and  to  publish  the  same  in  print, 
that  so  the  errors  and  falsities  therein  may  be  fully  dis 
covered,  the  truth  cleared,  and  the  minds  of  those  that  love 
and  seek  after  truth  confirmed  therein." 

After  the  adoption  of  this  declaration,  and  the  passage  of 
an  order  to  have  it  printed  and  distributed  in  England,  it 
was  agreed  upon  by  the  whole  court  that  Mr.  Norton,  one 
of  the  reverend  elders  of  Ipswich,  should  be  entreated  to 
answer  Mr.  Pynchon's  book  with  all  convenient  speed. 
The  court  then  decided  that  Mr.  Pynchon  should  be  sum 
moned  before  the  next  General  Court  of  Election,  on  the 
first  day  of  the  session,  to  answer  for  the  publication  of  his 
heretical  book,  and  not  to  depart  without  leave  from  the 
court. 

Notwithstanding  the  action  that  had  been  taken  against 
Mr.  Pynchon,  he  went  out  of  the  court  with  a  better  case 
than  he  carried  in.  In  the  magistrates,  he  had  reclaimed 
the  respect  which  he  had  momentarily  lost ;  and  in  the  de 
puties,  a  secret  sympathy  in  his  behalf  had  been  awakened, 
which  did  not  find  its  legitimate  expression  in  their  vote. 
It  had  appeared  that  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  trampled  upon 
without  care,  and  that  his  case  was  one  which  did  dishonor 
neither  to  his  intellect  nor  his  heart — whatever  disgrace  the 
court  might,  in  the  exercise  of  its  prerogatives  and  power, 
see  fit  to  visit  upon  him. 

To  the  ministers  who  heard  Mr.  Holyoke,  Mr.  Pynchon 
became  immediately  an  interesting  subject  of  labor  and 
discipline.  They  longed  to  get  hold  of  him,  and  talk  his 
errors  out  of  him — to  show  him  the  loops  in  his  logic,  the 
weakness  of  his  argument,  and  the  fallacy  of  his  conclusions; 
and  they  resolved,  before  leaving  the  hall,  that  they  would, 
for  the  honor  of  Christ  and  the  salvation  of  Mr.  Pynchon, 
procure  from  him  a  retraction  of  his  errors,  and  achieve  for 
him  a  restoration  to  the  confidence  of  the  court  and  the 

14* 


322  THE     BAY     PATH. 

colony.  The  resolution  was  a  bold  one,  when  it  is  consi 
dered  with  whom  they  had  to  deal,  but  the  result,  as  will 
hereafter  appear,  was  complimentary  to  their  perseverance 
and  power. 

As  the  session  broke  up,  the  deputies  divided  into  excited 
parties,  and  engaged  warmly  in  the  discussion  of  Mr.  Holy- 
oke's  speech.  The  more  they  talked,  the  more  clearly  they 
apprehended  the  fact  that  something  very  unusual — some 
thing  revolutionary,  in  fact — had  been  said.  They  won 
dered  they  had  sat  so  quietly,  and  heard  such  sentiments 
and  opinions  boldly  put  forth.  They  wondered  that  they 
had  not  risen,  at  the  close  of  his  remarks,  at  least,  and 
denounced  him  as  a  traitor  to  the  country,  and  a  betrayer 
of  true  religion.  They  wondered  that  they  had  not  seen 
the  tendency  of  the  doctrines  proclaimed,  and  that  they 
could  have  been  so  weak  as  to  sit  silently,  and  listen  to 
sentiments  so  entirely  subversive  of  the  existing  order  of 
things. 

Mr.  Pynchon  and  Mr.  Holyoke  walked  to  their  lodgings 
together,  and  were  the  least  excited  and  the  happiest  men 
of  the  number.  A  report  of  the  independent  bearing  of  the 
former  before  the  magistrates,  and  of  the  noble  speech  of 
the  latter,  had  preceded  their  appearance  in  the  street,  and, 
by  the  common  people,  they  were  regarded  as  heroes — as 
men  who  must  have  possessed  a  courage  almost  super 
human. 

Towards  evening,  as  Mr.  Pynchon  was  sitting  in  his 
room  busily  engaged  in  writing,  his  landlady  appeared, 
and  informed  him  that  a  couple  of  reverend  elders  were  at 
the  door,  and  desired  to  speak  with  him.  He  bade  her 
invite  them  in,  and,  on  passing  to  the  door  himself,  met 
Mr.  Cotton  and  Mr.  Norton,  the  two  divines  who  have 
been  mentioned  as  in  attendance  at  the  Deputies  when 
Holyoke's  speech  was  made.  Mr.  Pynchon  received  them 
with  more  than  his  usual  dignity,  and  it  was  with  much 


THE     BA.Y     PATH.  323 

circumlocution,  and  with  no  assistance  from  him,  that  they 
approached  the  object  of  their  visit. 

"  We  have  come,"  said  Mr.  Cotton,  at  last,  "  to  speak 
with  you  in  relation  to  your  book." 

Mr.  Pynchon  bowed. 

"  We  have  felt  it  to  be  our  duty,  as  ministers  of  the  gos 
pel,  to  approach  you  privately,  to  explain  to  you  the  effect 
which  your  work  has  produced,  to  endeavor — praying  for 
God's  blessing  upon  our  effort — to  point  out  the  more 
grievous  errors  into  which  we  believe  you  have  fallen,  and 
to  labor,  as  God  hath  given  us  ability,  for  your  restoration 
to  the  favor  of  the  General  Court  and  the  colony  churches." 

"  God  give  you  such  speed  in  your  work  as  may  bring 
honor  to  truth  and  glory  to  Him  !''  exclaimed  Mr.  Pynchon, 
while  an  excited  flush  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Amen  !"  ejaculated  the  ministers  in  concert. 

•'  Mi\  Pynchon,"  said  Mr.  Cotton,  "  you  are  doubtless 
aware  that  the  doctrines  you  have  advanced  in  regard  to  the 
character  of  the  price  paid  for  man's  redemption  are  very 
unlike  those  entertained  by  the  colony  churches." 

"  I  am,  sir.  Had  I  supposed  there  was  no  point  of  differ 
ence,  I  should  not  have  written  the  book." 

"  Well,  we  will  not  discuss  that  matter  now,  for  there  is 
not  time.  We  come  now  to  you  as  a  Christian  man — as  one 
who  has  the  cause  of  true  religion  at  heart,  to  show  you 
that,  however  honestly  you  may  have  written,  that  cause  is 
receiving  damage  at  your  hands." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  believe  so  sad  a  thing," 
replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  touched  by  the  earnest  tone  in  which 
the  minister  spoke. 

"  And  yet  you  cannot  believe  otherwise,  if  you  will  open 
your  eyes  to  see,  and  your  ears  to  hear,  the  commotion 
which  you  have  aroused  in  the  mind  of  the  churches  of  this 
colony,  and  even  among  those  of  the  Plymouth.  A  rock 
may  be  turned  over  where  it  lies,  upon  the  level  ground, 


324  THE     BAT     PATH. 

and  .no  man  hear  the  report  or  feel  the  shock,  but  starting 
from  the  top  of  the  mountain,  it  leaves  a  scar  upon  the 
mountain's  side,  and  fills  the  plain  with  smoke  and  ruin." 

"But  a  scar  is  the  indication  of  a  healthy  action,  and 
smoke  and  ruins  are  not  necessarily  companions,"  replied  the 
magistrate. 

"I  cannot  accuse  you  of  jesting,"  rejoined  the  divine, 
"but  surely  you  must  have  seen  enough  in  the  General 
Court  to-day,  to  show  you  that  much  bitterness  of  feeling 
has  been  aroused,  and  that  charity  and  brotherly  love  have 
been  very  sadly  compromised." 

"  For  all  of  which,  I  presume,  you  propose  to  hold  me 
responsible.  You  might  as  well  hold  me  responsible  for  your 
own  unreasonableness  in  such  an  imputation,  as  for  what  you 
have  seen  to-day." 

Mr.  Pynchon  uttered  this  rebuke  with  an  excited  flash  of 
the  eye  and  flush  of  the  cheek,  but  Mr.  Cotton  received  it 
meekly  and  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  Mr.  Pynchon,  man  is,  at  his  best  estate,  fallible.  You 
have  written  a  book  upon  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  im 
portant  subjects  that  can  engage  the  mind  of  a  mortal,  and 
there  is  a  possibility,  you  will  admit,  that  you  have  made  a 
mistake,  and  even  many  mistakes.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
you  will  admit  this.  If  so,  then  it  becomes  you,  as  a  Chris 
tian,  to  open  your  mind  to  those  who  attend  continually 
upon  this  very  thing,  and  try  your  opinions  in  the  light  of 
their  learning.  At  any  rate,  the  consciousness  that  you 
may  be  in  error,  and  be  the  cause  of  stumbling  to  many  a 
weaker  brother,  and,  perhaps,  may  lead  many  souls  to  the 
gates  of  death,  should  make  you  very  careful  before  men, 
and  prayerful  before  God." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  plainness  of  speech,"  said  Mr. 
Pynchon,  rising,  "  and  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  and  Mr. 
Norton  at  some  other  time,  but  you  must  excuse  me  now. 
as  I  have  pressing  business  on  hand." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  325 

The  two  divines  rose  from  their  chairs,  and  Mr.  Norton, 
who  had  remained  silent  from  the  fact  that  he  only  wished 
to  engage  the  magistrate  in  a  discussion  of  doctrine,  asked 
that  gentleman  if,  on  some  future  occasion,  he  would  have 
any  objection  to  take  the  text  of  the  controverted  book 
as  the  basis  of  conversation.  Mr.  Pynchon  assured  him  that 
he  should  be  ready  to  engage  in  such  a  conversation  at  any 
convenient  opportunity,  and  then  politely  bowed  the  gentle 
men  out  of  the  house. 

As  soon  as  his  door  was  closed,  he  turned  to  his  desk  to 
pursue  his  writing,  but,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  that  a 
new  and  most  troublesome  discontent  had  been  implanted 
in  his  heart.  He  had  supposed  that  he  was  firmly  fixed  in 
his  opinions,  but  he  could  not  but  admit  that  he  might  pos 
sibly  be  wrong,  and  he  could  not  fail  to  see  that  the  foun 
dation  of  the  beautiful  edifice  he  had  reared  partook — 
however  strong  it  might  be — of  his  own  frailty. 

Then  came  up  to  his  imagination  the  ordeal  through 
which  he  had  agreed  to  pass.  He  had  agreed  to  pit  him 
self  against  the  most  learned  divines  and  the  subtlest  dia 
lecticians  of  the  day  in  a  discussion  of  some  of  the  funda 
mental  doctrines  of  Christianity.  This  thought  was  full  of 
excitement,  and  his  mind  ran  off  into  the  field  of  thought 
and  argument  with  which  it  had  become  so  familiar,  as  if 
anxious  to  see  whether  the  old  fortifications  were  still  stand 
ing,  and  the  pieces  upon  which  he  had  always  relied  still 
looked  out  from  their  embrasures.  Then  his  mind  glanced 
off  upon  another  course,  as  Mr.  Cotton's  suggestion  recur 
red  touching  the  effect  of  his  book  upon  the  Christian  cause. 
This  gave  him  more  trouble  than  all  the  rest.  The  possi 
bility  that  he  had  wounded  the  cause  of  Christ — that  he 
had  endangered  the  soul  of  believer  or  unbeliever — that  he 
had  failed  to  do  full  honor  to  Him  who  had  his  affections, 
or  had  detracted  from  the  dignity  of  His  mission — sat 
gloomily  at  the  door  of  his  heart,  and  breathed  into  it  the 
most  painful  disquietude. 


326  THE     BAY     PATH. 

A  few  minutes'  indulgence  in  thoughts  like  these  unfitted 
him  for  business,  and  he  found  himself  unable  to  pursue  his 
writing.  As  he  rose,  and  walked  the  floor  of  his  apartment, 
the  change  that  had  passed  over  his  spirit  within  a  short 
time,  occurred  to  him.  He  had  entered  the  room  calm  and 
almost  exultant — his  mind  firm,  contented,  and  elastic.  He 
was  then  free  from  the  fetters  he  had  worn  through  many 
weary  years,  but,  somehow,  his  visitors  had  slipped  them 
upon  him  again,  and,  full  of  doubts  and  fears,  he  felt  once 
more  half  stripped  of  his  manhood. 

Mr.  Pynchon  had  many  interviews  with  the  divines  before 
he  returned  home.  His  mind  became,  little  by  little, 
obscured  by  the  fear  that  he  might  be  wrong — a  cloud  no 
larger  tnan  a  man's  hand  at  first,  but  growing  until  it  dark 
ened  his  whole  mental  vision — and  he  found  himself  unable  to 
cope  with  the  cool  heads  and  ready  speech  of  his  antagonists. 

At  last,  their  interviews  had  become  little  more  than 
solemn  farces,  in  which  the  divines  threw  down  his  positions, 
and  then  setting  them  up,  threw  them  down  again.  After 
they  supposed  that  the  foe  had  been  thoroughly  reduced, 
they  proposed  to  Mr.  Pynchon  that  he  should  recant  his 
errors.  This  he  refused  to  do,  until  he  had  had  opportunity 
coolly  to  consider  the  whole  matter  after  his  arrival  in  Spring 
field.  He  felt  that  he  was  not  himself  among  them,  or 
under  their  influence,  and  that  he  should  be  faithless  to  God's 
honor  as  well  as  his  own  to  yield  well  conceived  and  tho 
roughly  considered  opinions  to  such  an  unnatural  pressure. 

As  the  party  which  accompanied  Mr.  Pynchon  to  the 
Bay  set  out  upon  their  return,  they  were  even  sadder  than 
when  they  left  their  home ;  and  the  dead  leaves  that 
strewed  the  Bay  Path  in  one  continuous  line  of  desolated 
beauty,  well  represented  the  fallen  hopes  that,  like  these 
very  leaves,  were  fluttering  in  suspense  and  tinged  with 
blight  when  their  bearers  passed  eastward  not  many 
weeks  before. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

DURING  the  tedious  period  of  Mary's  sickness — its  long 
days  of  watching  and  longer  nights — Hugh  heard  of  many 
strange  things ;  and,  although  he  knew  that  Mary  was  de 
ranged,  her  words  seemed  informed  with  a  peculiar  signifi 
cance,  as  if  they  were  warnings  or  prophecies  of  some  awful 
event  in  the  future.  There  was  one  object — invisible  to 
Hugh — of  which  she  was  always  endeavoring  to  obtain  a 
view,  and  her  trials  all  grew  out  of  the  presence  of  other 
objects  which  obstructed  her  vision.  Sometimes  Hugh 
stood  between  her  and  the  object  she  sought,  and  when,  at 
her  command,  he  stepped  aside,  Mr.  Moxon  appeared ;  and 
if  Mr.  Moxon  at  last  retired,  some  one,  or  some  thing, 
almost  always  took  his  place,  and  still  left  her  wandering 
imagination  unsatisfied  and  distressed. 

It  was  strange  to  see  how  a  peculiar  mood  of  mental 
being  and  action  had  leaped  over  a  barrier  of  sane  and 
hearty  life,  to  join  itself  to  a  similar  mood  far  back  in  the 
past.  As  Mary  lay  upon  her  bed,  tossing  in  feverish  rest 
lessness,  the  familiar  vision  of  her  mother's  eyes  came  back 
to  her.  She  recalled  a  long  conversation  with  her  father 
when  he  asked  her  if  she  could  not  see  them ;  and  their 
sweet  and  loving  expression  arose  upon  her  memory,  and 
soon  dawned  upon  her  distempered  fancy,  with  the  old 
semblance  of  reality.  She  sought  for  them  through  clouds 
and  darkness,  and  when,  at  times,  she  felt  their  influence 
upon  her  aching  head,  and  no  intervention  prevented  their 
soft  and  soothing  light  from  falling  deep  down  into  her 
heart,  a  smile  so  beautiful  and  heavenly  irradiated  her  pallid 


328  THE     BAY     PATH. 

face  that  Hugh's  fainting  heart  throbbed  with  a  new  hope, 
and  gushed  with  a  long  unwonted  delight.  But  each  smile 
was  brief.  Some  phantom  face  or  form — some  grim  enemy 
— some  distant  cloud  or  clinging  mist — came  between  her 
and  those  blessed  eyes,  and  often  she  struggled  with  these 
obstructions  through  whole  nights,  and  waked  in  the  morn 
ing  only  for  a  biief  hour,  to  enter  again  into  the  unsatisfying 
and  tormenting  quest. 

Nor  did  these  fancies  leave  her  as  she  slowly  recovered  a 
portion  of  her  strength.  Those  eyes  were  always  above 
her,  in  her  dreams,  and,  as  life  freshened  its  pulses,  she 
sometimes  slept  in  their  light  through  whole  nights — as 
still,  and  white,  and  placidly  beautiful  as  the  earth  beneath 
the  moon  in  early  spring-tune. 

At  other  times,  great  ghostly  clouds  swept  over  her,  and 
tangling  shapes  of  darkness  twined  their  dim  forms  above 
her,  through  the  rifts  of  which  those  eyes,  at  long  intervals, 
looked  in  upon  her  spirit  with  a  spell  of  peace,  as  the  moon 
sometimes  looks  from  the  clouds  through  openings  towards 
which  it  has  waded  in  their  deceitful  depths  for  hours. 

Through  all  these  long  weeks  of  weakness  and  confine 
ment,  Hugh  and  Mary  could  hardly  have  been  better 
cared  for  had  a  special  miracle  been  wrought  for  their 
benefit  every  day.  Morning  after  morning  Hugh  found  at 
the  door  some  choice  bird,  or  fish,  or  piece  of  venison, 
which  left  him  .at  perfect  liberty  to  devote  all  his  time 
to  the  care  and  comfort  of  his  wife.  Further  than  that 
these  timely  gifts  came  from  the  same  generous  hand  that 
supplied  their  earlier  stores,  Hugh  knew  nothing ;  but  he 
became  so  much  accustomed  to  find  at  the  door  just  what 
he  wanted,  that  he  was  disappointed  whenever  the  resource 
failed  him. 

Occasionally,  neighbors  called  to  see  how  Mary  was  get 
ting  along,  or  from  some  motive  of  curiosity,  and,  as  they 
frequently  came  in  at  meal  times,  and  saw  what  excellent 


THE     BAY     PATH.  329 

fare  Hugh  enjoyed,  and  was  able  to  spread  before  Mary, 
they  asked  many  awkward  questions  in  regard  to  the  mode 
of  its  procurement.  It  became  known  and  notorious,  at 
last,  that  though  Hugh  did  not  step  his  foot  out  of  doors  to 
obtain  any  kind  of  food,  he  was  always  supplied  with  the 
best  game  in  the  forest,  the  best  fish  in  the  river,  and  the 
best  meal  from  the  mill.  Every  effort  made  by  the  gossips 
of  the  place  to  ascertain  who  supplied  him,  was  without 
avail.  The  matter  was  discussed  at  quilting  parties,  in 
family  circles,  and  even  among  the  grave  and  important 
men  of  the  plantation. 

As  a  natural  consequence,  the  general  belief  ran  in  the 
old  channel,  and  infernal  agency  received  the  credit  of 
more  Christian  charity  than  existed  in  the  whole  settlement ; 
or  perhaps,  more  properly,  of  fulfilling  the  terms  of  a  bar 
gain  to  which  Mary,  or  Hugh,  or  both,  were  parties.  Mr. 
Moxon  always  formed  one  link  in  the  chain  of  gossip  that 
reached  around  the  neighborhood,  and  was  the  receiver  and 
careful  treasurer  of  every  idle  story  concerning  the  ill-fated 
pair;  for  his  children  were  still  afflicted,  and  with  all  his 
circumspection  he  was  unable  to  discover  any  one,  except 
Mary,  who  could  safely  be  charged  with  being  their  tor 
mentor. 

Every  circumstance  in  the  unfortunate  woman's  life 
seemed  fated  to  feed  his  suspicions  concerning  her.  If  she 
exhibited  anger,  she  was  under  the  influence  of  the  devil. 
If  she  won  a  friend,  it  was  through  Satanic  wiles.  If  she 
was  fed  in  her  helplessness,  it  was  by  the  power  of  sorcery. 
Even  the  insanity  of  her  sickness  was  regarded  as  demoni 
acal  possession  ;  and  her  sickness  itself  as  nothing  less  than 
the  prostration  of  her  bodily  powers  before  a  supernatural 
occupation. 

At  long  intervals,  Mary's  old  mistress,  who  also  suffered 
from  ill  health,  went  to  visit  her.  The  meeting  was  always 
a  sad  one,  for  each  saw  in  the  other  the  cruel  havoc  made 


330  THE     BAY     PATH. 

by  disease  and  care.  There  was  not  one  in  all  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon's  family  who  felt  the  wounds  inflicted  on  that  gentle 
man's  reputation  so  keenly  as  Mary  Holyoke,  and,  as  his  trials 
came  upon  him  when  she  was  weak  with  indisposition,  the 
intelligence  wrought  upon  her  with  a  terrible  power.  Her 
mental  organization  was  so  fine,  and  her  physical  powers  so 
exquisitely  adjusted,  that,  irritated  by  the  harsh  influences 
of  a  new  settlement,  oppressed  with  maternal  cares  and 
hardships,  destitute  of  medical  advice  or  aid,  and  shocked 
by  the  treatment  dealt  out  to  her  father,  whom  she  still 
loved  and  honored  with  more  than  the  devotion  of  child 
hood,  she  could  not  retrieve  her  failing  strength,  or  shake 
off  the  sorrow  that  lay  heavily  upon  her  heart.  Yet  her  lips 
dropped  only  kindness,  and,  however  irritable  and  petulant 
Mary  Parsons  might  be,  as  she  entered  the  cabin,  the  serene 
carriage  of  her  friend,  the  sweet  words  of  comfort  which 
she  spoke,  the  manifestation  of  true  friendship  which  she 
never  failed  to  make,  soothed  the  poor  girl's  wounded  spirit, 
and  filled  her  with  gladness  and  gratitude  that  gave  life 
almost  its  only  sweetness  through  many  after  days. 

It  was  a  joyous  day  for  Hugh  when  his  wife  sat  in  her 
chair  once  more,  with  a  favorite  dress  upon  her,  and  her 
hair  neatly  parted  and  tied  up  in  the  way  she  used  to  wear  it 
when  he  learned  to  love  her.  He  was  as  playful  as  a  child, 
and  quite  as  happy  ;  and  as  he  drew  the  table  to  her  side, 
and  pressed  her  with  the  viands  he  had  prepared,  and  heated 
the  rough  plank  for  her  feet,  and  kissed  her  pale  cheek,  and 
lavished  upon  her  the  thousand  little  attentions  and  caresses 
that  naturally  sprang  from  his  gratitude  for  her  recovery, 
and  his  wish  to  make  her  as  happy  as  himself,  it  seemed  a 
pity  that  Mr.  Moxon  could  not  be  a  spectator  of  the  scene 
— that  so  he  might  receive  an  impression  of  the  artlessness 
and  innocence  of  the  unfortunate  pair. 

As  Mary  slowly  recovered  her  strength,  a  new  care, 
which  during  her  insanity  had  been  forgotten,  asserted  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  331 

leading  place  in  her  mind.  She  was,  within  a  few  months, 
to  become  a  mother.  The  thought  thrilled  her  with  a 
strange,  sweet  pride,  that  quite  subdued  her  natural  fears 
and  apprehensions ;  and  the  first  work  to  which  she  turned 
her  long  unused  hands  was  bestowed  upon  the  preparations 
for  the  advent  of  the  promised  comer. 

One  evening,  three  or  four  weeks  after  she  had  com 
menced  this  work,  and  sat  pleasantly  talking  with  Hugh  in 
regard  to  it,  she  brought  out  for  exhibition  the  store  of 
clothing  she  had  rapidly  prepared — the  little  shirts,  the 
little  dresses,  the  little  caps  and  socks,  and  the  hundred-and- 
one  little  things  that  make  up  humanity's  first  wardrobe. 
One  after  another  these  were  held  up,  and  thetn  laid  down 
upon  the  table,  until  that  article  of  furniture  supported  such 
a  spread  as  it  never  had  before,  and  presented  quite  the 
appearance  of  a  museum  of  curiosities.  In  the  very  midst 
of  this  display,  the  cabin  door  opened  without  the  slightest 
warning,  and  gave  ingress  to  Peter  Trimble. 

"  I  knew  you  must  be  alone  here  to-night,  and  I  heard 
Mary  had  got  well,  and  so  I  thought  I'd  come  down,  and 
walk  straight  in,  jest  to  see  if  it  wouldn't  scare  you  a  little," 
said  Peter,  carefully  closing  the  door,  and  advancing  to  the 
fire.  "  I  didn't  'spose  it  would  scare  you  much,"  continued  he, 
"  because  I  didn't  know  as  that  would  do  ;  but  I  thought  it 
would  make  you  open  your  eyes  sudden.,  and  wake  you  up. 
How  do  you  do  here — eh  ?"  and  Peter  gave  one  hand  to 
Mary,  and  the  other  to  Hugh,  in  a  manner  so  different  from 
that  which  he  usually  bore  that  they  opened  their  eyes  with 
a  very  genuine  surprise. 

"  Take  away  these  things,"  said  Mary  to  Hugh,  very 
hurriedly,  and  in  an  under  tone.  Then  turning  to  Peter 
she  endeavored  to  engage  him  in  conversation,  and  com 
menced  by  asking  how  he  had  been  for  so  many  weeks. 

"  Oh !  I've  been  fust  rate,"  said  Peter,  sitting  down  in 
the  best  chair,  and  stretching  his  feet  towards  the  fire  ;  "  but 


332  THE     BAY     PATH. 

I'd  no  idea  you'd  got  so  well.  By  George !  Mary,  you 
look  as  red  as  fire  !  It's  true,  now,  isn't  it,  Hugh  ?  I  never 
see  your  cheeks  so  full  of  blood ;  did  you,  Hugh  ?" 

All  this,  of  course,  did  not  tend  in  the  slightest  degree  to 
restore  Mary's  equanimity,  especially  as  Hugh  stopped  ex 
actly  in  the  midst  of  his  work,  in  order  to  verify  Peter's 
statement. 

"  If  you're  taking  them  traps  away  because  I've  come, 
you  may  as  well  let  them  be,  for,  between  you  and  I,  I  am 
getting  used  to  them."  And  then  Peter  put  his  head  down 
between  his  knees,  at  the  infinite  peril  of  roasting  his  brains, 
and  abandoned  himself  to  such  a  powerful  snicker  that 
Hugh  and  Mary  were  obliged  to  laugh  outright,  from  very 
sympathy.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  however,  Mary 
managed  to  get  the  remainder  of  the  "  traps"  out  of  sight, 
and,  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  sat  down  and  asked  him  what 
he  meant. 

"  Oh !  I  see  these  things  pretty  much  every  night,  and 
they  don't  scare  me ;  and  if  they  don't  scare  me,  they  hadn't 
ought  to  scare  anybody,  and  you'd  say  so,  if  you  knew 
what  I  do."  The  knowledge  to  which  he  alluded  quite 
overcame  him,  and  he  could  only  check  the  snicker  into  which 
it  threw  him,  by  turning  around,  slapping  Hugh  on  the 
back,  and  exclaiming — "  It's  the  old  hen,  now,  Hugh  !" 

"  The  old  hen  ?"  inquired  Hugh,  with  an  expression  of 
wonder  on  his  face. 

"  Don't  you  remember  about  the  pullet  ?"  inquired  Peter, 
with  the  slightest  possible  sidewise^nod  towards  Mary. 

Hugh  believed  that  he  did,  and  smiled  at  the  recurrence 
of  the  term,  and  the  scene  with  which  it  was  associated. 

"  The  pullet  was  took  by  a  fox,  I  expect,"  said  Peter, 
giving  Hugh  a  sly  nudge.  "  By  George !"  continued  he,  his 
old  admiration  of  the  feat  recurring,  "  you  did  that  well, 
Hugh!  You  did  jest  as  I'd 'a  done,  exactly.  Yes,  sir  I 
that  was  a  clean  thing." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  333 

"  So  you're  after  another,  now,"  suggested  Hugh. 

"  Yes,  I'm  after  another,  but  it  ain't  a  pullet,"  responded 
Peter,  and  then  he  continued :  "  I  might  as  well  tell  you, 
for  between  you  and  I,  that's  jest  what  I  come  here  for  to 
night.  You  know  where  Deacon  Chapin  sets,  pretty  regu 
lar,  in  the  meeting-house,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mary  and  Hugh  together. 

"  Can't  you  think  of  a  hen  and  six  chickens  that  always 
set  three  seats  back  of  him  ?" 

"  A  hen  setting  in  the  meeting-house  ?"  inquired  Hugh, 
with  well  feigned  astonishment. 

Peter  rose,  and,  seizing  Hugh  by  the  shoulders,  shook 
him  till  he  could  hardly  breathe, — meantime  saying :  "Hugh 
Parsons,  you're  the  greatest  feller  to  be  tripping  up  a  chap's 
heels  I  ever  see.  That's  jest  the  way  you  served  me  before. 
You're  always  putting  me  out  and  breaking  me  down  in  the 
wrong  place !  Land  ahead  !  there  wouldn't  anybody  think, 
to  look  at  you,  that  you  was  up  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  widow  Tomson  ?"  inquired  Mary, 
with  marked  curiosity. 

"  No,"  replied  Peter,  very  positively. 

"  Well,  who  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,"  replied  Peter,  charmed  with  his  own  ingenuity, 
"  a  woman  that  looks  so  much  like  her  you  can't  tell  them 
apart." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to  marry  widow 
Tomson  ?"  said  Mary. 

"I  can  if  I'm  a-mind  to, — I  know  that,"  responded 
Peter,  rising  to  his  feet  proudly,  and  looking  down  upon  his 
legs. 

Mary  saw  that  there  was  really  something  serious  in  the 
matter,  and  that  Peter  thought  he  was  about  to  secure  a 
prize.  She  therefore  refrained  from  any  remark  that  would 
injure  his  feelings,  and  asked  him  to  tell  her  how  the  affair 
was  brought  about. 


334  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  Well,  you  know  Tomson  left  her  in  rather  a  tight  place, 
don't  you  ? — six  children  and  a  cabin  to  keep  them  in,  but 
nobody  to  do  the  work  for  them,  and  stay  in  the  house 
nights.  One  morning,  as  I  was  going  by,  she  called  to  me, 
and  said  she,  "  Peter,  I  was  almost  scat  to  death  last  night. 
I  know,  jest  as  well  as  I  want  to  know,  that  an  Indian  tried 
to  get  into  the  house,  and  I  haven't  got  a  bit  good  flint  in 
my  gun.'  Well,  I  knew  what  that  meant.  She  knew  I 
always  carried  flints — everybody  is  always  losing  a  flint, 
you  know,  and  nobody  has  one,  and  so  I  went  to  the  house, 
and  put  the  best  flint  into  the  lock  I  had  in  my  pocket,  and 
jest  drew  the  old  charge,  and  snapped  it  two  or  three  times, 
to  let  the  children  see  the  fire  roll.  Byme-by  I  looked  up, 
and  there  stood  the  widow,  crying.  Says  I,  '  What's  the 
matter  ?'  Says  she,  *  I  was  thinking  how  Tomson  used  to 
snap  that  same  gun,  with  the  children  all  standing  around 
him.'  Says,  I, '  Goody  Tomson,  there  is  no  use  in  crying  for 
spilt  milk.'  Says  she,  '  I  know  it,  but  what'll  become  of 
the  children  ?'  Says  I,  *  Can't  you  put  them  out  to  live  ?' 
Says  she,  '  I  don't  know  how  I  should  get  places  for  them,  for 
I  can't  leave  them  a  minute.'  Says  I,  '  Perhaps  you'd  like 
to  have  me  try  for  you.'  Says  she, '  Peter,  that  is  jest  what 
I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me  a  long  time.' 
Says  I,  '  I'll  do  it.'  Well,  I  made  a  good  beginning,  and 
got  rid  of  one  child  the  first  evening  ;  you'd  better  believe 
I  told  a  pretty  good  story.  The  next  morning  I  got  rid  of 
another,  and  then  the  widow  said  I  could  jest  as  well  have 
their  bed  as  not,  and  she  should  feel  so  much  better  with  a 
man  in  the  house. 

"  So  I've  been  there  to  sleep  ever  since ;  but  it  took  me 
nigh  about  a  week  to  get  off  the  third  child.  You  see  they 
grow  smaller  as  you  get  along  down,  and  people  are  scary 
about  taking  them  because  they  can't  pay  their  way.  Now 
there's  one  more  that'll  do  to  be  sent  off — don't  you  want  a 
little  tot,  Hugh,  to  be  skiving  round  the  cabin  here,  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  335 

making  a  fuss,  and  learning  to  do  things,  and  full  of  fun? 
By  George !  Hugh,  she's  as  lively  as  a  little  squirrel,  and  I 
think  she's  the  prettiest  one  of  the  lot.  Land  ahead !  I 
hadn't  thought  of  you  before." 

Hugh  and  Mary  were  both  disposed  to  decline  any  por 
tion  of  the  widow  Tomson's  dividends,  and  Peter,  having 
satisfied  himself  on  that  point,  proceeded. 

"  One  night,  after  I'd  come  in,  and  we  was  both  feeling 
pretty  well,  to  think  how  nicely  we'd  got  along  with  the 
children,  says  Goody  Tomson  to  me,  '  What  do  you  s'pose 
folks  think,  because  you're  here  so  much,  and  have  done  so 
much  in  getting  my  children  put  out  ? '  Says  I,  '  I  don't 
know,  nor  I  don't  care.  Whose  business  is't  ? '  says  I ; 
says  she,  'You  men  don't  feel  such  things  as  we  women  do. 
We  don't  have  anybody  to  take  care  on  us,  and  stand  up 
for  us — we  that  have  been  left  alone — '  and  then  she  put 
her  handkerchief  up  to  her  eyes,  and  I  should  think  she 
cried  for  half  an  hour." 

As  the  memory  of  this  afflictive  scene  came  back  to  Peter, 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  across  the  room,  and 
then  returned  and  dropped  himself  into  his  seat. 

"  I  ain't  a'going  to  tell  you  the  rest  of  it.  You  both  of 
you  look  just  as  full  of  Cain  as  you  can  hold,"  said  Peter,  as 
he  caught  the  expression  upon  their  faces,  on  resuming  his 
chair. 

"  Oh !  go  on !  go  on  ! "  exclaimed  both,  Mary  adding 
with  peculiar  significance,  "  we  were  not  laughing  at  you." 

"I  shan't  do  it,"  replied  Peter,  with  a  dim  suspicion  that 
he  had  been  humbugged,  and  a  slight  feeling  of  shame  at 
revealing  the  tender  passages  in  his  acquaintance  with  the 
widow.  "  I  shan't  do  it.  You  know  how  them  things  are 
got  along  with.  Anyhow,  we  came  to  an  understanding, 
and  I  tell  you  she's  a  good  deal  more  of  a  woman  than  she 
has  the  credit  of  being,  and  she  ain't  but  thirty  years  old 
either.  Now  you  wouldn't  have  thought  that,  would  you  ?  " 


336  THE     BAT     PATH. 

"So  you  are  really  going  to  marry  the  widow  Tomson, 
are  you,  Peter  ? "  said  Mary,  affirmatively  and  interroga 
tively  together. 

"  I  shan't  say  that  I  am,  and  I  shan't  say  that  I  ain'tf 
replied  Peter,  "  but  I  do  say,"  continued  he,  with  an  ex 
tremely  intelligent  look,  "  that  such  traps  as  you  had  on  the 
table  when  I  came  in  don't  scare  me.  Land  ahead  !  I'll 
bet  I've  dressed  and  ondressed  that  baby  of  Goody  Tom- 
son's — Esther  she  wants  me  to  call  her — more  than  twenty 
times." 

This  statement  was  too  much  for  the  gravity  of  his 
auditors,  and  Hugh,  exclaiming,  "  Ah,  Peter,  you  are  in  for 
it,"  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  in  which  Mary  joined  him. 
Peter  began,  at  last,  to  think  there  was  something  extremely 
funny  in  the  matter,  and  laughed  louder  than  either  of  them, 
until  he  wished  to  stop,  and  managed  to  effect  his  object  by 
seizing  Hugh  by  the  shoulders,  and  exclaiming,  "  Say ! 
what  are  you  laughing  at?  I  only  did  it  for  fun." 

Peter's  friends  finally  found  breath  to  congratulate  him 
on  his  success,  as  well  in  getting  rid  of  the  children  of  the 
bereaved  Esther,  as  in  securing  her  and  the  balance  of  her 
family  ;  and  Peter  closed  the  interview  by  informing  them 
of  the  exact  value  of  the  widow's  cabin,  the  number  of  acres 
in  her  possession  that  had  been  planted  with  corn,  and  tho 
general  desirableness  of  the  match,  in  a  worldly  point  of 
view.  Assuring  them,  with  a  feeling  of  complacent  exulta 
tion  that  almost  choked  his  utterance,  that  he  began  to  feel 
as  if  he  Avas  "  one  of  them,"  he  retired  to  the  widow  Tom- 
son's  cabin,  to  lend  the  protection  of  his  presence  to  its 
inmates,  and  to  dream  of  the  time  when,  with  ah"  its  con 
tents  and  environments,  it  should  become  his  own. 

Long  conversations,  between  Mary  and  Hugh,  upon  the 
all-absorbing  subject,  were  of  frequent  occurrence  during 
the  months  which  followed,  but,  meanwhile,  new  anxieties 
descended  upon  both. 


THE    BAY  "PATH.  337 

.* 

Mary,  instead  of  recovering  her  accustomed  health,  as 
time  passed,  relapsed  into  a  strange  and  very  miserable 
state,  and,  during  much  of  the  time,  betrayed  the  most 
positive  and  painful  symptoms  of  mental  alienation.  These 
were  frequently  accompanied  by  a  very  decided  aversion  to 
the  presence  of  her  husband,  and  the  acceptance  of  any 
offices  of  kindness  and  affection  at  his  hands — a  condition 
which  filled  him  with  the  deepest  perplexity  and  distress. 

As  the  spring  advanced,  there  arose  another  disturbing 
cause,  which,  though  harmless  in  itself,  became,  in  her  imagi 
nation,  charged  with  terrible  evils.  Mr.  Moxon  had  received 
advice  concerning  his  children  from  an  eminent  medical 
gentleman  at  the  Bay,  which  required  him  to  see  that  they 
were  thoroughly  exercised  for  an  hour  every  morning  in 
the  open  air ;  and  as  the  best  walk  passed  by  Mary's  cabin, 
the  passage  of  the  minister,  with  a  daughter  at  each  hand, 
became  a  matter  of  daily  recurrence.  They  never  passed 
by  the  cabin,  however,  without  instituting  the  closest  scru 
tiny  of  everything  around  it,  and  if  the  door  or  window 
happened  to  be  open,  of  everything  within  it. 

This  daily  inquisition  became,  at  last,  so  intolerable,  that 
every  symptom  of  Mary's  disease  was  aggravated  by  it,  and 
it  frequently  gave  rise  to  whole  days  of  excessive  nervous 
irritation  and  mental  distress. 

Thus  passed  away  the  spring  and  the  summer;  and  a 
sad,  weary  time  was  it  for  poor  Hugh.  Through  many  a 
warm  summer  night  he  sat  sleepless  at  Mary's  bedside, 
endeavoring  to  soothe  her  heated  fancies.  Hour  after  hour 
she  lay  upon  her  bed,  gazing  upwards  with  her  large,  lus 
trous  eyes,  and  brushing  away  with  her  white  and  spectral 
hands  the  long  succession  of  filmy  shapes  and  shadows  that 
intei-posed  between  her  own  and  those  eyes  whose  loving 
and  gentle  gaze  was  all  for  which  her  soul  seemed  to  long 
and  labor.  Sometimes  she  asked  him  for  assistance,  and 
was  vexed  at  his  awkwardness.  Sometimes  he  was  the 

15 


338  THE     fcAY     PATH. 

obstruction,  and  fled  before  a  wild  burst  of  her  impa 
tient  temper.  Then,  after  laboring  ineffectually  for  hours, 
she  would  renounce  the  essay,  and  sink  into  a  long  fit  of 
hysterical  weeping  and  sobbing. 

One  morning  in  the  early  pai't  of  autumn,  only  a  day  or 
two  after  Mr.  Pynchon's  departure  for  the  Bay  as  recorded 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  Mr.  Moxon  and  his  children  were 
taking  their  accustomed  walk  by  the  cabin,  gazing  intently 
at  it  during  their  slow  progress,  when  a  feeble  wail  fell  upon 
their  ears,  but  of  a  character  so  peculiar- — coming  as  it  did 
very  faintly  through  the  closed  door  and  windows — that 
they  paused  in  blank  stillness  and  astonishment.  The  wail 
was  again  and  again  repeated  ;  and  Mr.  Moxon,  on  looking 
down  upon  his  children,  saw  that  it  was  producing  upon 
them  a  very  marked  effect.  Martha  listened  with  a  pleased 
and  most  interested  smile  upon  her  face,  and,  at  last,  reach 
ing  out  her  hand,  exclaimed  "  Poor  pussy  !  poor  pussy ! " 
Then  she  stooped  to  the  ground,  as  if  she  saw  the  object  she 
had  named  approaching  her,  and  was  ready  to  fold  it  in  her 
arms. 

Mr.  Moxon  saw  that  a  fit  was  actually  upon  her,  and  that 
Rebekah  was  rapidly  approaching  her  usual  sympathetic 
condition,  and,  fairly  tearing  Martha  away  from  the  spot,  in 
spite  of  tears  and  entreaties,  he  hurried  with  both  of  his 
children  homewards.  Arriving  there,  the  minister,  who 
had  begun  to  feel  hopeful  in  regard  to  his  children,  was 
again  plunged  into  despair  by  their  continuance  in  the 
paroxysm  which  had  come  upon  them.  All  day  long  Mar 
tha  had  the  blue  cat,  of  the  years  long  gone,  with  and  about 
her.  She  folded  her  in  her  arms  with  childish  fondness,  and 
was  offended  that  neither  her  father  nor  mother  could  hear 
her  purr,  or  feel  her  as  she  rubbed  against  their  garments. 

During  the  day,  Mr.  Moxon  was  informed  by  a  neighbor 
of  the  birth  of  Mary  Parsons's  child ;  and  heard  the  an 
nouncement  with  a  sigh  so  deep  as  to  startle  his  informant. 


THE     BAT     PATH.  339 

He  regarded  the  event  as  the  accession  of  another  baleful 
influence  to  the  number  of  those  which  had  for  years  been 
operative  against  him  and  his  family,  and  as  he  turned  to 
the  contemplation  of  his  children  he  exclaimed,  from  the 
depths  of  a  heart  bursting  with  distress,  "  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long!" 

Little  did  Mary  and  Hugh  imagine,  while  they  were 
laughing  over  Peter  Trimble's  story  of  his  somewhat  re 
markable  courtship,  that  they  should  be  indebted  to  the 
good-natured  widow  Tompson  for  some  of  the  kindest  and 
most  important  offices  of  friendship. 

Mary,  for  weeks  and  months  after  the  birth  of  her  child, 
saw  not  one  sane  day  or  hour.  Hugh,  in  the  midst  of  his 
perplexity,  called  upon  his  friend  Peter  to  help  him ;  and 
Peter,  with  his  uniform  policy,  was  ready  to  lend  the  servi 
ces  of  anything  he  had  in  the  world — even  to  those  of  the 
self-devoted  Esther.  And  Esther  came  with  her  hearty 
baby  at  her  breast — the  youngest  of  the  Tompson s — and 
after  doing  what  she  could  in  the  cabin,  and  ascertaining 
that  Mary's  child  would  have  to  be  kept  away  from  her,  took 
the  puny  little  creature  to  her  own  home,  and  cared  for  it, 
and  nursed  it  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had  been  her  own. 

Many  a  long  fight  of  words  did  she  have  over  the  strange 
baby ;  for  two  days  had  not  passed,  after  its  birth,  before 
the  story  of  the  peculiarity  of  its  tone  in  crying  and  its  effect 
upon  the  Moxon  girls,  had  become  notorious  throughout 
the  plantation.  All  the  gossips  of  the  town  visited  the  wi 
dow's  cabin  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  baby  that  cried 
like  a  cat.  Little  girls  came  to  the  window,  and  looked  in, 
and  then  ran  away  to  tell  the  story  to  their  mates. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  account  fully  for  the  peculiar 
gloom  that  settled  upon  the  town  during  the  winter  that 
followed  Mr.  Pynchon's  misfortunes  at  the  Bay,  and  the 
birth  of  Hugh's  unwelcome  child.  Mr.  Pynchon  shut  him 
self  closely  in  his  room  and  hardly  appeared  at  all,  except 


340  THE     BAY     PATH. 

at  the  public  religious  exercises  in  the  meeting-house.  There 
was  a  general  air  of  thoughtfulness  throughout  his  house 
hold,  and  among  his  connexions.  There  were  no  merry 
makings  in  the  neighborhood  during  the  winter — no  huskings 
— no  weddings.  It  seemed  as  if  a  great  crisis  in  the  affairs 
of  the  plantation  were  approaching,  and  as  if  every  one's 
heart  were  blindly  prophesying. 

No  man  appreciated  the  general  state  of  feeling  and  the 
change  that  had  occurred  in  the  tone  and  temper  of  the 
people  more  thoroughly  than  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  it  all  tended 
not  only  to  increase  his  unhappiness,  but  to  fill  him  with  the 
most  distressing  anxieties  and  the  deepest  self-questionings. 
In  his  lonely  contemplations,  the  thought  had  occurred  to 
him  that  perhaps  all  these  calamities  had  come  upon  his 
people  m  consequence  of  his  own  unfaithfulness  to  duty 
and  to  truth. 

To  a  sensitively  conscientious  mind,  a  thought  like  this 
would  be  the  most  painful  it  could  possibly  entertain. 
Was  he,  after  all  his  efforts  to  build  up  the  plantation,  and 
to  order  its  affairs  in  a  Christian  manner,  only  a  curse  to  it  ? 
Had  he  been  presumptuous  in  setting  aside  the  learning 
of  his  teachers,  and  in  assuming  their  robes  and  responsi 
bilities  ?  Was  he  but  a  Jonah  upon  the  vessel,  who  must 
be  thrown  overboard  before  the  waves  could  be  quieted  ? 
These  questions  fell,  one  after  another,  upon  his  mind,  and 
fairly  crushed  it  to  the  earth,  and  prepared  the  way  for  one 
of  the  most  painful  and  humiliating  passages  in  his  whole 
life. 

As  soon  as  the  Bay  Path  became  passable,  and  the 
streams  that  crossed  it  fordable,  in  the  following  spring, 
Mr.  Pynchon  set  out,  with  a  heavy  heart,  for  the  Bay. 
Henry  Smith  accompanied  him  as  a  deputy  from  the  town 
to  the  General  Court,  and  as  they  turned  the  steps  of  their 
horses  eastward,  followed  by  prayerful  adieus,  they  left 
a  very  sad  community  behind  them.  All  believed  and  felt 


THE     BAY     PATH.  341 

that  a  great  and  good  man  was  about  to  be  sacrificed. 
Even  Deacon  Chapin,  who,  with  a  number  of  the  best  and 
most  reliable  men  in  the  plantation,  did  not  sympathize 
with  Mr.  Pynchon's  views  of  doctrine,  and  disapproved  his 
general  policy,  was  touched  by  his  personal  distresses,  and 
gave  him,  at  parting,  the  hand  of  genuine  commiseration. 

At  the  end  of  his  journey,  he  found  his  old  friends,  the 
ministers,  ready  to  receive  him,  and  ready  again  to  labor, 
in  any  way  that  offered,  for  his  7-estoration  to  orthodoxy. 
During  his  absence,  they  had  gone  over  the  whole  ground 
together,  and  had  arranged  their  forces  for  a  battle  in 
which  they  felt  certain  of  becoming  the  victors.  Mr.  Nor 
ton's  reply,  written  in  accordance  with  the  request  of  the 
General  Court,  had  been  completed  and  fully  discussed 
among  the  self-constituted  board  of  reverend  censors  ;  and 
it  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  strongest  document  in 
that  behalf  possible  to  be  produced  in  the  colony.  The 
divines  found  Mr.  Pynchon  debilitated  by  a  winter's  con 
finement,  and  greatly  fatigued  by  his  journey.  His  mind 
suffered  as  well  as  his  body,  and  it  became  a  task  of  com 
parative  ease  to  worry  him  down,  and  secure  the  preliminary 
steps  to  a  recantation  of  his  alleged  errors. 

At  this  juncture,  an  event  occurred  which  brought  a 
sudden  alarm  upon  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  a  burden  of  terrible 
pain — an  event  which  thrilled  with  horror  the  members  of 
the  General  Court,  and- spread  a  sudden  excitement  through 
out  the  Bay  settlements.  This  event  will  take  the  reader 
back  to  Springfield,  and  to  that  town — for  the  time — the 
scene  is  transferred. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII. 

MR.  PYNCHON  had  been  absent  from  the  settlement  but  a 
few  days  when  symptoms  of  amendment  appeared  in  the 
sad  case  of  Mary  Parsons.  For  months  she  had  not  spoken 
of  her  child,  but,  at  last,  her  memory  and  reason  seemed  to 
return  together,  and  as  the  fact  that  she  was  the  mother  of 
a  child  that  had  once  slept  upon  her  bosom  had  been  fixed 
upon  her  mind  during  some  lucid  moment,  she  turned 
to  look  upon  the  long  alienated  baby,  as  if  she  had  just 
awaked  from  the  sleep  of  an  hour.  She  gave  Hugh  a 
pleasant  smile  as  he  bent  over  her,  and  asked  him  for  the 
object  for  which  she  sought ;  and  he — unwittingly  and  with 
much  agitation — told  her  where  the  child  was,  and  how 
long  and  for  what  cause  it  had  been  away  from  her.  The 
facts  were  too  much  for  her  weak  brain,  and,  under  their 
pressure,  she  relapsed  again  into  an  insane  mood,  in  which 
her  child  divided  her  wandering  and  Avayward  fancies  with 
her  mother's  eyes,  and  in  which,  in  some  way,  the  two 
became  united  by  a  thousand  conflicting  or  harmonious 
associations. 

Hardly  a  minute  passed  that  did  not  hear  her  calling  for 
her  child  ;  and,  as  darkness  closed  down  upon  her  memory, 
and  the  path  between  it  and  Goody  Tomson's  cabin  was 
blotted  out,  the  child  was  elevated  by  her  imagination  to 
direct  companionship  with  the  beautiful  eyes  from  which 
had  descended  upon  her  the  only  calm  and  comfort  she  had 
enjoyed  during  her  long  illness.  Then  came  between  her 
eyes  and  the  double  vision  the  old  tormenting  shapes  with 
which  her  long  struggle  had  been  held,  and  her  eflbrts  to 


THE     BAY     PATH.  343 

reach  her  baby  and  reclaim  it  to  her  arms  became  so  pitiful, 
that  Hugh  could  only  look  upon  her  and  weep. 

At  last,  he  sent  for  Mary  Holyoke,  and  asked  for  her 
advice  in  regard  to  restoring  her  child  to  her.  The  plead 
ings  of  the  poor  insane  mother  touched  Mary  Holyoke's 
heart  at  once,  and  she  begged  Hugh  to  go  to  Goody  Tom- 
son,  and  bid  her  bring  the  child.  The  kind-hearted  nurse 
was  soon  on  the  Avay,  in  obedience  to  the  summons,  and 
Hugh  walked  back  in  her  company,  with  a  vague  hope  in 
his  breast  that  the  child  would  carry  to  its  stricken  mother 
a  soothing  if  not  a  healing  power.  As  the  pair  softly 
entered  the  cabin,  they  found  Mary  Holyoke  sitting  at  the 
side  of  the  poor  patient,  who,  as  if  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  her  old  friend  and  mistress,  had  fallen  into  a  quiet  sleep. 
The  child,  too,  was  sleeping  in  its  nurse's  arms,  and  both 
the  women — mothers  as  they  were — by  an  impulse  that 
sprang  in  each  alike  from  simple  nature,  moved  to  lay  the 
little  one  by  its  mother's  side.  The  clothes  were  softly 
turned  down,  and  the  baby's  head — once  more  at  its  home 
— pressed  its  mother's  arm ;  and  the  little  one  smiled  with 
a  sweetness  that  thrilled  the  trembling  Hugh  to  the  very 
depths  of  his  heart,  as  it  composed  itself,  from  a  momentary 
disturbance,  to  a  sounder  sleep. 

It  was  a  moment  of  profound  excitement.  The  cabin 
was  as  still  as  if  there  were  not  a  breathing  inhabitant 
within  it,  and  every  waking  eye  was  upon  the  sleeping 
mother  and  child.  Half  an  hour — an  hour — passed  thus, 
when  Mary,  who  had  enjoyed  the  best  sleep  that  had 
visited  her  for  several  days,  opened  her  eyes,  and  again 
called  for  her  child. 

"  Hush !"  said  Mary  Holyoke,  softly,  "  the  baby  is  sleep 
ing  on  your  arm.  Do  not  wake  it !" 

The  mother  turned  her  large  eyes,  full  of  wonder  and 
strange  curiosity,  upon  the  child,  and,  without  speaking 
a  word,  gazed  at  it  until  the  big  tears  brimmed  her  eyes, 


344  THE     BAY     PATH. 

and  ran  down  upon  her  pillow,  drop  by  drop,  as  if  an 
accumulated  flood  had  found  vent,  and  were  pouring  forth 
its  waters,  alike  unbidden  and  uncontrollable.  Then  she 
carefully  put  her  face  down  to  the  little  head  that  lay 
pillowed  upon  her  arm,  and  pressed  her  lips  upon  it  with  a 
gentle  power,  and,  from  the  recesses  of  her  ardent  nature, 
poured  out  upon  it,  in  a  fervent  and  silent  effluence,  the 
first  healthy  outgoings  of  a  mother's  love.  The  room  was 
silent  still,  save  as  Hugh  gave  expression  to  his  feelings  in 
occasional  sobs.  Goody  Tomson  had,  as  noiselessly  as 
possible,  gone  out  of  the  cabin,  and  seating  herself  upon  a 
rough  bench  at  the  door,  given  herself  up  to  a  hearty  fit 
of  crying. 

The  sleep  of  the  unconscious  cause  of  all  this  emotion 
began  gradually  to  release  its  bands,  and  the  child  opened 
its  eyes  for  the  first  time  upon  its  mother's  face.  It  looked 
but  a  moment,  when  its  face  became  suffused  with  fright, 
and,  closing  its  eyes  again,  it  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying  as 
vigorous  as  it  was  pitiful. 

Mary  Holyoke  watched  with  intense  interest  the  effect 
of  this  development  upon  the  mother,  and  was  pained  to 
witness  a  strange  wild  change  coming  upon  her  countenance, 
and  breaking  in  a  more  powerful  expression  from  her  eye. 
The  mother  looked  at  her  weeping  child  for  a  minute,  then 
pushed  it  from  her  violently,  and  exclaimed,  "  That  is  not 
my  child — take  it  away;  and  don't  let  Goody  Tornson 
bring  any  more  of  her  brats  here  to  cheat  me  with!" 

"  My  dear !"  said  Mary  Holyoke,  "  this  is  your  own  sweet 
child.  It  has  grown  so  much  that  you  do  not  know  it." 

The  only  reply  made  to  this  address  was  a  stare  of  mingled 
incredulity  and  resentment,  from  which  the  poor  patient's 
benefactress  shrank  with  a  sigh  of  distress.  Goody  Tom- 
son  no  sooner  saw  her  little  protege  pushed  rudely  aside 
than  she  seized  the  treasure,  and,  hugging  it  to  her  bosom, 
retired  to  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  whither  its  mother's 


THE     BAY     PATH.  345 

eyes  followed  her  with  an  expression  of  mingled  intelligence 
and  fatuity  that  crushed  the  newly  springing  hopes  in 
Hugh's  bosom,  and  showed  how  thoroughly  her  mind  had 
been  committed  to  its  shadowy  keepers. 

Goody  Tomson  was  soon  joined  by  Mary  Holyoke  and 
Hugh,  and  a  consultation  was  held  in  regard  to  the  proper 
course  of  procedure.  Mary  Holyoke  could  not  give  up  the 
idea  that,  in  some  way,  the  presence  of  the  child  would  do 
the  mother  good  ;  how,  it  did  not  appear,  but  so  it  seemed 
to  her.  The  nurse  was  not  so  sure,  from  the  fact  that  her 
sympathies  attached  rather  to  the  child  than  the  mother. 
Hugh  was  willing  to  do  what  the  others  thought  for  the 
best,  and,  as  they  could  not  agree,  it  was  finally  decided 
that  Goody  Tomson  should  return  to  her  cabin  with  the 
child,  and,  if  Mary  should  again  call  for  it,  in  such  a  man 
ner  as  in  any  way  to  show  that  she  wished  to  see  it — the 
little  one  she  had  disowned — it  should  be  sent  for. 

As  the  nurse  wrapped  her  little  charge  in  a  blanket,  to 
guard  it  from  the  chill  of  the  evening  which  was  approach 
ing,  and  undertook  to  pass  out  of  the  door,  she  was  arrested 
by  Mary  with  the  words,  "  Where  are  you  going  with  that 
child?"  ' 

"  Home,"  replied  the  nurse. 

"  I  thought  Mistress  Holyoke  said  it  was  my  child,"  said 
the  mother. 

"  But  you  said  it  wasn't,"  replied  Goody  Tomson,  very 
bluntly. 

"I  don't  know,"  responded  Mary,  while  a  shadow  of 
doubt  passed  over  her  face,  "  but  she  never  told  me  a  lie 
before.  Bring  the  baby  here  again." 

The  babe,  at  Mary  Holyoke's  request,  was  brought  back, 
and  exhibited  to  the  mother,  who  made  no  effort  to  take  it 
in  her  arms,  and  was  content  to  look  at  it  in  the  nurse's 
possession. 

"Don't  let  her  take  it  away  !"  exclaimed  the  mother  to 
15* 


346  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Mary  Holyoke,  with  a  beseeching  expression  that  seemed 
the  very  opposite  of  that  which  she  had  previously  exhi 
bited. 

"  She  shall  not  go  !"  replied  the  lady,  with  an  affectionate 
and  decided  impulse. 

It  was  .then  ai-ranged  that  Mary  Holyoke  should  return 
home,  and  send  word  to  Goody  Tomson's  cabin — still  in  the 
keeping  of  Peter  Trimble — that  that  young  man  would  be 
obliged  for  the  night  to  dispense  with  the  presence  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  and  discharge  the  duties  of  a  nurse  as 
well  as  protector  to  her  little  family  of  children.  After 
giving  Hugh  and  the  nurse  some  general  directions  touch 
ing  the  management  of  affairs,  Mary  Holyoke  bent  her 
steps  homeward  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  her  own  house 
hold. 

After  her  departure,  the  patient  lay  in  deep  silence,  as  if 
absorbed  in  thought,  and  Hugh  and  the  nurse  kept  at  a 
distance,  hoping  that  she  might  fall  asleep.  But  not  a 
motion  was  made  that  she  did  not  see.  The  babe  which 
the  nurse  had  succeeded  in  keeping  unusually  quiet  during 
her  presence  in  the  house,  occasionally  nestled  uneasily  in 
her  arms,  and  gave  utterance  to  a  low  cry ;  and  at  such 
times  the  mother  raised  herself  upon  her  elbows  in  the  bed, 
and  gazed  upon  it  with  a  painful  intensity. 

At  last,  Hugh  brought  to  Mary  her  supper,  but  not 
a  mouthful  passed  her  lips.  She  shook  her  head  at  every 
offer  of  food,  and  kept  her  eyes  fastened  upon  her  child  as 
the  nurse  fed  it  at  her  own  breast,  or  walked  across  the 
cabin  with  it  closely  folded  in  her  arms,  or  hummed  a 
drowsy  tune  in  its  ears,  or  whispered  to  it  in  sweet  and 
soothing  words. 

Hugh  and  the  nurse  ate  their  supper  in  silence,  and  soon 
afterwards  the  baby  fell  asleep.  As  the  two  were  sitting 
at  a  small  fire  that  had  been  kindled  upon  the  hearth,  alter 
nately  looking  at  the  flickering  flame  and  the  patient  at  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  34Y 

opposite  side  of  the  room,  the  wind  began  to  moan  dismally, 
and  the  rain  to  patter  upon  the  cabin  roof,  while,  at  brief 
intervals,  a  drop  fell  intact  through  the  short  chimney,  and 
died  Avith  an  angry  pang  upon  the  coals,  as  if  it  had  been 
stung.  Then  the  rising  wind  wailed  more  and  more  dread 
fully  among  the  trees,  and  roared  in  and  around  the  chim 
ney — sometimes  sweeping  the  gradually  increasing  rain 
against  the  window  panes,  persistently  and  with  spasmodic 
reinforcements  of  power,  and  then  retiring,  and  roaring 
away  among  the  woods;  sometimes  pouncing  upon  the 
cabin  like  an  army  of  shadowy  beasts,  shaking  the  door  as 
if  human  hands  had  hold  of  it,  rattling  the  window,  tossing 
the  rain  down  the  chimney  in  showers,  scrambling  over  the 
loose  sticks  upon  the  wood  pile,  and,  at  last,  tired  and 
baffled,  scampering  off  over  the  leaves  to  make  way  for  its 
successors  ;  sometimes  making  a  feint,  and,  wheeling  around 
the  corner,  spending  its  strength  at  an  unexpected  point — 
at  last  falling  lifeless  in  a  lull  through  which  the  rain  came 
down  steadily,  as  if  it  had  been  waiting  the  result  of  the 
wind's  mano3uvres.  In  a  brief  hour,  a  still,  sombre  day  had 
descended  into  a  wet,  wild  night. 

Hugh  sat  for  a  while  and  listened  to  the  dreary  music 
of  the  storm,  and  then  barred  his  door,  and  made  fast  the 
windows,  so  that  they  should  not  rattle,  and  stuffed  old 
garments  under  the  door  to  keep  out  the  driving  rain,  and 
set  a  pail  to  catch  the  water  that  began  to  fall,  drop  by 
drop,  from  a  leak  in  the  roof.  After  these  preparations  for 
a  stormy  night  had  been  made,  he  resumed  his  seat  at  the 
fire,  and,  oppressed  with  weariness  and  long  watching, 
began  to  doze. 

The  dropping  into  the  pail  quickened  its  measured  fall, 
until  each  drop  struck  the  surface  with  a  metallic,  musical 
clink,  that  might,  in  that  weird  and  dreary  room,  have 
been  mistaken  for  an  elfin  bell,  calling  the  sprites  of  the 
woods  to  a  revel  upon  the  midnight  hearth. 


848  THE     BAT     PATH. 

Hugh  opened  and  closed  his  eyes  wearily,  and  the  nurse 
nodded  over  the  baby  in  her  low  chair ;  but  upon  the  bed, 
which,  in  their  weariness  and  drowsiness,  they  had  momen 
tarily  forgotten,  lay  a  brain  teeming  with  fancies  born 
equally  of  the  storm  without  and  the  storm  within. 

As  the  watchers  became  still,  Mary  waited  for  a  noisy 
blast  of  the  storm,  and  then  raised  herself  upon  her  elbows 
in  the  bed,  and  sought  for  a  glimpse  of  the  child.  Then,  in 
another  blast,  she  settled  upon  the  bed  again.  This  move 
ment  was  several  times  repeated.  At  last,  she  subsided  into 
silence. 

The  blast  rose  and  fell  upon  her  ears,  the  rain  poured 
ceaselessly  upon  the  roof,  and  the  water  drops  clinked  faster 
and  faster  in  the  pail,  as  if  the  fairy  bell  had  been  changed 
to  a  set  of  silver  chimes,  sending  forth  their  liquid  music 
from  towers  that  swayed  with  the  sound.  The  flickering  fire, 
the  roaring  wind,  the  sweeping  rain,  the  lively  chimes,  the 
strange  child,  and  the  twilight  of  the  room,  foi'med  a  com 
bination  of  circumstances  and  influences  which  harmonized 
marvellously  with  her  mood  of  mind,  and  filled  her  with 
a  strange,  delicious  joy,  that  she  had  not  experienced  for 
many  months.  She  seemed  to  breathe  the  native  atmosphere 
of  delirium,  and  to  find  her  mind,  for  the  first  time  since 
her  sickness,  adapted  to,  and  in  accordance  with  the  circum 
stances  that  formed  the  externals  of  her  life.  In  this  mood, 
she  turned  her  gaze  upwards,  and  never  had  such  a  sweet 
vision  of  her  mother's  eyes  smiled  upon  her.  No  cloud 
obstructed,  no  shape  intervened.  Calm  and  sweet — full  of 
love  and  tender  sadness — those  orbs  which  had  watched 
over  her  infancy,  which  had  beamed  in  upon  the  darkness 
and  sorrows  of  her  childhood's  dreams — those  eyes  met  hers, 
and,  beneath  them,  as  if  folded  to  a  shadowy  bosom,  was 
her  baby — her  baby — a  little  cherub,  wrapped  in  rosy 
sleep. 

As  she  gazed  and  gazed  again,  and  drank  in  the  beauty 


THE     BAT     PATH.  349 

and  the  blessedness  of  this  dear  vision,  the  wind  seemed  to 
lull  in  the  forest  around,  and  the  clinking  water  changed  to 
a  low,  sweet  measure,  like  bells  heard  in  the  desert,  or  the 
dreamy  tinkle  of  flocks  grazing  on  the  sunny  slopes  of  sum 
mer  hills. 

As  she  lay  thus  in  beatific  possession,  through  what 
seemed  to  her  almost  an  age  of  bliss,  the  wind  began  to  rise 
again,  and,  roaring  in  the  chimney,  driving  the  rain  upon 
the  roof  and  walls  of  the  cabin,  and  screaming  among  the 
forest  branches,  brought  clouds  before  her  mental  sight,  and 
shut  out  the  vision  that  had  so  long  held  her  in  sweet 
enthralment.  The  first  and  only  shape  that  interposed  was 
that  of  the  strange  child.  She  changed  the  position  of  her 
head,  but  the  stranger  came  between.  She  tried  to  sweep 
it  away  with  her  hand,  but  she  could  not  reach  it.  Then, 
slowly  raising  herself  upon  her  elbows  again,  she  looked  at 
the  nurse,  still  nodding  over  her  little  charge  in  the  corner, 
and,  settling  back  to  her  place,  she  very  softly  pronounced 
Hugh's  name. 

Hugh,  long  accustomed  to  watching  and  sleeping  lightly, 
was  at  her  bedside  in  an  instant. 

"  Tell  Goody  Tomson,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low,  composed 
voice,  "  to  lay  the  child  on  my  bed,  over  upon  the  other 
side,  and  to  lie  down  herself  upon  the  bunk,  and  get  some 
rest." 

"  Do  you  think  you  had  better  have  the  child  on  your 
bed?"  inquired  Hugh,  doubtingly,  and  with  an  effort  in  the 
faint  light  to  get  the  expression  of  her  eye. 

"  Why — isn't  it  my  child  ?"  said  Mary. 

"  Oh  !  certainly  it  is,  Mary,"  replied  Hugh,  with  all  the 
tenderness  and  persuasiveness  he  could  throw  into  his  voice  ; 
"  certainly  it  is,  Mary — it  is  your  child  and  mine." 

"  Well — can't  I  have  my  own  child  ?"   inquired  Mary. 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice — something 
in  her  manner — that  filled  him  with  misgivings  and  fears, 


350  THE     BAY     PATH. 

but  he  could  not  tell  what  it  was ;  so  he  Avent  to  Goody 
Tomson  and  knelt  down  by  her  side,  and  whispered  in  her 
ear  the  substance  of  Mary's  wishes  and  directions. 

As  he  knelt  there,  the  rain  came  down  freshly  upon  the 
roof,  and  the  clinking  drops  struck  the  pail  with  a  rapid  and 
irregular  fall — a  wild  and  hurried  tone — as  if  the  bells  of  a 
city  were  ringing  the  alarm  of  a  pressing  danger.  They 
almost  spoke — and  bounded  up  from  the  surface  upon 
which  they  fell,  and  broke  into  strange  articulations,  and 
sharply  modulated  shouts  and  cries  that  had  their  echoes. 
No  ear  heard  or  noticed  them  but  Mary's.  To  her,  they 
spoke  a  plain  language  ;  and  she  wondered  that  Hugh  and 
Goody  Tomson  did  not  hear  it ;  and,  as  they  whispered  to 
gether — cautiously,  so  that  they  might  not  waken  the  babe 
— she  watched  them  closely,  to  see  whether  they  had  not 
taken  the  alarm. 

Goody  Tomson,  oppressed  with  sleep  and  not  doubting 
that  Hugh  would  look  well  after  the  child,  seemed  glad  to 
accede  to  Mary's  wishes ;  and,  taking  the  little  one  to  the 
bed,  gently  released  it  from  her  own  arms,  and  deposited 
it  upon  a  pillow  on  the  side  opposite  to  its  mother.  The 
sleepy  nurse  did  not  see  the  glaring  eyes  that  scanned  her 
every  movement,  and  Hugh  was  engaged  in  watching  the 
child  which,  though  his  own,  he  had  hitherto  hardly  known. 

When  the  child  was  covered,  the  pair  went  on  tiptoe 
back  to  the  hearth,  and  Hugh,  pointing  to  the  bunk  at  the 
side  of  the  room,  sent  the  nurse  to  her  rest.  Then,  adding 
two  or  three  sticks  to  the  fire,  he  stretched  himself  in  his 
chair  to  sleep.  Ten  minutes  had  hardly  elapsed  when  both 
Hugh  and  the  nurse  were  soundly  snoring.  But  the  storm 
still  continued  without,  roaring  and  sweeping  around  the 
cabin,  and  masking  if  not  entirely  drowning  the  minor 
sounds  within. 

Within  a  few  minutes,  the  cabin  had  grown  solemn  to  its 
only  wakeful  tenant.  The  roof  had  swollen  with  rain  until 


THE     BAT     PATH.  351 

the  leak  was  so  small  that  the  drops  came  in  at  long  and 
measured  intervals  upon  a  body  of  water  whose  increased 
depth  gave  forth  a  sad  strange  resonance,  like  the  tolling 
of  a  lonely  bell. 

Mary  lay  in  death-like  stillness  listening  to  the  knell,  and 
revolving  in  her  confused  mind  a  purpose  which  had  crept 
into  it  and  fastened  itself  there.  Once  more  she  looked 
upwards — long,  patiently,  and  earnestly — but  she  could  see 
nothing  but  the  strange  child.  Then  slowly,  she  turned 
her  head  upon  the  pillow,  until  her  eyes  were  glued  to  the 
little  sleeper.  She  watched  the  babe  for  a  few  minutes — 
all  the  time  keeping  distinctly  in  her  sharpened  apprehen 
sions  the  rhythmic  respirations  of  its  nurse  and  father,  and 
alive  to  every  movement  they  might  make — and  then,  as  a 
serpent  creeps  toward  the  victim  it  has  charmed,  she  passed 
her  emaciated  hand  towards  the  child. 

With  the  first  movement,  the  wind  seemed  to  die  away, 
and  the  rain  to  withhold  its  fall  upon  the  roof.  She  paiised, 
and  the  drops  fell  into  the  pail  still  more  slowly,  and  with 
a  sadder  intonation,  as  if  they  were  grief-burdened,  or 
growing  faint  with  despair.  Between  each  drop,  inch  after 
inch,  the  white  hand  slid  along  the  sheet,  coming  nearer 
and  still  nearer  the  unconscious  babe,  whose  nurse  seemed 
to  snore  more  loudly  as  the  danger  to  her  charge  increased. 
At  length  its  little  hand  was  reached,  and  Mary  accidentally 
touched  it.  It  was  soft  and  warm,  and  irritated  by  the 
slight  disturbance,  the  child  raised  it  and  slowly  dropped 
it  upon  that  of  its  mother.  In  the  utter  tension  of  her  sen 
sibilities,  she  could  feel  the  pulsations  of  its  heart  at  the 
very  tips  of  its  fingers,  and  there  was  something  so  delicate 
and  sweet  in  its  touch,  something  so  unconscious  and  inno 
cent  in  its  sleep,  that  she  paused  for  another  look  in  its 
face.  She  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  the  same  face — • 
the  same  child — that  had  come  between  her  and  her  own 
child — it  was  the  little  impostor. 


352  THE     BAY     PATH. 

The  wind  came  up  again  with  a  wail  from  the  woods — 
and  her  brain  caught  the  impulse  and  the  influence.  Again 
her  hand  was  in  motion,  and  onward  it  moved,  inch  by  inch, 
towards  the  babe's  head — the  slowly  dropping  water  mean 
while  uttering  low,  tearful,  pleading  notes  of  deprecation. 

Again  she  paused,  looked  towards  the  distant  sleepers, 
then  towards  the  pail,  and  half  rose  with  a  sudden  impulse 
to  move  it  from  its  place,  that  so  its  admonitions  might  be 
silenced.  Her  cautiousness  checked  her  in  the  act,  and 
again  she  turned  to  the  child. 

At  this  moment,  her  eye  was  burning  with  excitement, 
but  her  hand  and  arm  were  as  steady  as  if  the  nerves  that 
strung  them  were  of  iron.  Slowly  that  hand  passed  over 
the  little  sleeper's  throat,  and  there,  as  still  and  rigid  as  the 
hand  of  death,  it  paused.  The  conscious  palm,  with  the 
strained  tendons  underneath  the  bloodless  skin,  felt  the 
warmth  of  the  little  chin  and  neck  and  breast,  like  a  palpa 
ble  emanation  or  atmosphere,  as  it  hung  above  them  at 
scarcely  a  hair's  escape  from  contact ;  but  still  it  paused. 
Then,  from  the  far  northeast,  Mary  heard  a  blast  stirring 
among  the  trees.  On  it  came,  roaring  and  wailing  and 
screaming  through  the  night,  until  it  reached  the  cabin, 
where,  bellowing  in  the  chimney  and  sweeping  over  the 
roof,  it  drowned  all  other  noise  without  and  within. 

At  the  height  of  the  confusion,  that  pale  hand,  with  the 
grip  of  a  vice,  was  fastened  upon  the  little  sleeper's  throat. 
Not  a  breath  did  it  draw — not  an  utterance  did  it  make 
— afterwards.  Its  hands  instinctively  tugged  at  Mary's 
wrist,  in  the  vain  effort  to  tear  it  away,  and  its  chest  heaved 
in  quick  throes,  and  its  legs  were  drawn  up  in  struggling 
convulsions.  These  grew  fainter  and  fainter  until  the 
victim's  eyes — strained  wildly  open — slowly  deadened  into 
a  senseless  glaze,  and  its  soft,  sweet  face  became  turgid 
and  purple.  At  last,  all  was  still — the  babe  was  stone  dead. 
The  wind  died  away,  and  the  last  brand  had  ceased  to 


THE     BA%    PATH.  353 

crackle  in  the  fire-place,  and  the  clinking  drops  had  for 
gotten  to  ring  their  changes  in  the  water  pail.  The  silence 
grew  awful,  for  death,  violence,  madness,  and  sleep  were 
gathered  in  one  room. 

The  murderess  clung  to  the  little  neck  that  had  grown 
long  and  lank  within  her  grasp,  until  she  began  to  feel  the 
chill  that  was  creeping  into  her  victim's  frame,  and  then  she 
slowly  and  cautiously  withdrew  her  hand  and  covered  the 
body  as  the  nurse  had  left  it  covered.  In  an  instant  a  wild 
thrill  of  exultation  passed  through  her  brain — a  strange, 
mad  joy — whose  manifestation  in  some  manner  she  had  no 
power  to  repress,  and  she  shivered  the  silence  with  a  laugh 
so  loud,  and  meaningless,  and  long  continued,  that  it  seemed 
to  the  suddenly  awakened  sleepers  more  like  the  laugh  of 
a  demon  than  of  a  human  being.  Hugh  leaped  to  the  bed 
side,  and  found  her  sitting  up  at  the  end  of  the  bed,  madly 
laughing  still.  He  no  sooner  appeared  than  Mary  pointed 
to  the  dead  child,  and  went  into  renewed  convulsions  of 
her  terrible  merriment. 

"  O  Mary !  O  God  !  Oh !  what  shall  I  do !  what  shall  I 
do !"  exclaimed  Hugh,  bursting  into  a  wild  cry  of  anguish, 
as  he  dimly  saw  the  child,  and  placed  his  hurried  and 
trembling  hand  upon  its  cold  little  face.  ^"  > 

At  this  time  the  drowsy  nurse  stumbled  blindly  towards 
the  bed,  wondering  what  had  occurred,  and  more  than  half 
forgetful  that  she  was  not  in  her  ovtn  cabin.  She  put  her 
hand  upon  the  child,  dropped  to  her  knees  to  look  at  it 
in  the  dull  twilight  of  the  room,  felt  its  neck,  and  then 
looked  at  the  mother,  whose  laughter  had  been  arrested  by 
Hugh's  exclamations  of  terror  and  distress.  The  terrible 
fact  stole  into  her  apprehension  by  degrees,  and,  sinking 
upon  the  floor,  the  simple  and  devoted  creature  clung  to 
Hugh's  knees,  and  gave  utterance  to  such  exclamations  of 
distress  as  burst  naturally  from  her  heart — bemoaning  the 
hour  and  day  she  ever  brought  the  little  innocent  back,  and 


354  THE     BA*     PATH. 

insisting  that  God  would  never  forgive  her,  and  that  she 
could  never  forgive  herself  for  the  act.  She  might  have 
known  a  crazy  mother  would  kill  the  child,  she  said. 

Hugh  disengaged  himself  from  her,  and  passing  around 
the  bed  to  Mary,  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  looking  in 
her  wild  eyes  a  moment,  hid  his  face  upon  her  wasted 
bosom,  and  crying  convulsively  said,  "  Oh,  Mary,  Mary, 
Mary,  Mary !  you  don't  know  what  you've  done !" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  too ;  I've  killed  that  woman's  ugly  brat,  and 
if  she  don't  leave  the  cabin  and  stop  troubling  you  and  me 
in  this  way,  I'll  kill  her." 

"Why,  Mary!  it  was  not  her  child — it  was  yours!  Oh,  dear! 
what  willbecomeof  us  now !"  and  Hugh — -poor,  worn,  weary, 
and  despairing  fellow — cried  as  if  his  heartwere  wholly  broken. 

Goody  Tomsoii  was  not  long  in  making  her  determina 
tion.  Throwing  her  shawl  over  her  head,  as  the  most  ex 
peditious  way  of  covering  herself,  she  unbarred  the  door, 
and,  before  Hugh  became  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing, 
was  on  her  way  to  give  the  alarm — her  own  heart  so  full  of 
alarm  that  she  flew  rather  than  ran  along  the  muddy  path. 
The  storm  lay  spent  upon  the  ground,  the  old  moon  with 
inverted  horn  hung  over  the  woods,  the  wolf's  long  howl 
from  the  eastern  hill  came  drearily  down  into  the  valley, 
as  the  woman  ran  screaming  "  Murder !  murder !"  from 
house  to  house. 

Not  until  she  had  run  nearly  the  length  of  the  village 
could  she  be  stopped,  so  as  to  direct  the  steps  of  the  at 
tendance  she  sought.  As  soon  as  the  first  fact  of  the  case 
was  learned,  nearly  all  the  men  of  the  settlement,  who  had 
risen  and  hastily  dressed  themselves,  were  on  their  way  to 
Hugh's  cabin.  Few  of  them  could  disguise  their  fears,  as 
they  turned  out  upon  this  errand.  The  old  stories  that 
clung  around  Mary  all  recurred,  and,  aside  from  them,  the 
first  murder  in  the  settlement  was  something  well  calculated 
to  shock  and  sicken. 


THE     BA         PATH.  355 

While  Hugh  was  engaged  in  the  endeavor  to  restore 
composure  and  some  degree  of  rational  consciousness  to  his 
wife,  he  heard  the  tramp  of  approaching  feet,  and  the  con 
fusion  of  excited  voices.  On  they  came,  along  the  road ; 
they  entered  the  yard,  threw  open  the  door  of  the  cabin, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  room  was  crowded.  All  were 
there — friends  and  foes.  Conspicuously  among  the  figures 
moving  around  the  room  was  that  of  the  minister,  who, 
instead  of  endeavoring  to  quell  the  excitement,  was  engaged 
with  the  constable  in  opening  drawers,  prying  into  nooks 
and  crannies,  lifting  loose  planks  upon  the  floor,  and  making 
inquiries  of  this  one  and  that,  in  a  low  voice,  and  acting  in 
a  manner  that  showed  that  he  regarded  the  murder  as  the 
key  to  his  own  deliverance.  Heaven,  in  his  belief,  had  de 
scended  in  judgment,  and  Satan  had  completed  the  ruin  of 
his  deluded  devotee. 

During  all  the  first  of  the  disturbance,  Mary  sat  still  upon 
the  bed,  leaning  upon  Hugh's  shoulder,  and  looking  wildly 
around  upon  the  excited  assemblage  which  soon  filled  the 
room  to  suffocation. 

Peering  through  the  doorway  into  the  morning  twilight, 
she  could  see  others  coming  in  the  distance — men,  women, 
and  children — some  running  at  the  top  of  their  speed,  some 
walking,  some  shouting,  some  pointing  towards  the  cabin, 
and  all  pressing  forward  with  a  fearful  earnestness  towards 
her. 

Then  rude  men  gathered  round  her,  and  asked  her  harsh 
questions,  and  told  her  that  she  would  be  hung ;  while 
half-dressed  women,  with  their  hair  upon  their  shoulders, 
came  rushing  excitedly  in,  and,  pressing  to  the  bed-side, 
burst  into  wild  lamentations  over  the  little  body  which,  in 
life,  they  had  accused  of  looking  like  a  cat ;  or  gave  vent 
to  their  excitement  in  upbraidings  of  the  poor  mother. 
What  was  passing  in  her  shattered  spirit,  what  meaning 
she  attached  to  the  confusion  around  her,  what  forebodings 


356  THE     BAY     PATH. 

darkled  through  her  mental  gloom,  what  fancies  she  built 
up  from  the  new  materials  around  her — the  pale  faces,  the 
straggling  hair,  the  contused  voices,  the  gaze  of  menace, 
curiosity,  and  fear,  the  fierce  reproaches — cannot  be  pictured, 
but,  in  her  fright — in  her  trouble — there  was  one  face  which 
she  sought,  and  which  was  long  in  coming. 

At  last,  by  the  operation  of  the  powerful  influences 
around  her,  the  cloud  of  her  delirium  was  borne  slowly 
away  from  her  spirit — or  repelled,  perhaps,  by  her  spirit, 
under  the  action  of  the  new  and  terrible  stimulus — and 
consciousness  swept  over  her  with  a  shudder  as  cold  as  that 
of  death.  The  longed  for  face  appeared  at  length,  and  the 
poor  infanticide  burst  with  an  appealing  cry  of  distress  from 
the  arms  of  her  husband,  and  hid  her  face  upon  Mary  Holy- 
oke's  bosom,  who,  too  weak  with  excitement  to  stand,  fell 
back  into  a  chair,  and  received  her  old  ward  upon  her 
knees. 

Mr.  Holyoke,  touched  by  this  scene,  ordered  the  room  to 
be  cleared,  and  the  door  to  be  shut.  Goody  Tomson  had 
returned,  and  was  weeping  over  her  cold  little  nursling,  and 
Mr.  Moxon,  Deacon  Chapin,  the  constable,  and  two  or  three 
of  the  principal  women  of  the  place  remained,  while  the 
others  gathered  into  knots  outside,  or  took  their  way 
silently  and  solemnly  homewards.  Then  Hugh  and  Goody 
Tomson — in  tears  and  terror — told  the  story  faithfully  and 
truly — Hugh  simply  insisting  on  Mary's  insanity,  and  Mary 
hearing  every  word,  as  the  awful  lact  grew  slowly  into  her 
convictions. 

Then  the  minister  and  the  other  men  present  drew  them 
selves  apart,  and  soon  became  excited,  so  that  none  of  their 
conversation  escaped  the  ears  of  the  others.  "  I  tell  you," 
said  Mr.  Moxon,  "the  day  of  retribution  has  come.  The 
tormentor  of  my  children  has  been  pointed  out  to  you  and 
to  me,  by  this  shocking  and  most  unnatural  murder.  The 
•witchcraft  is  the  primary  crime,  it  is  the  crime  which  pro- 


THE     BAY     PATH,  j        357 

cured  this  crime,  and  she  should  be  arrested  for  witchcraft 
as  well  as  murder." 

"  I  do  not  see  very  well  how  her  arrest  for  murder  can 
be  hindered,  in  the  state  of  feeling  which  exists  here  now, 
in  the  absence  of  the  magistrate,"  said  Mr.  Holyoke,  "  but 
I  do  object  to  loading  her  down  with  the  odium  of  witch 
craft  when  she  is  brought  before  her  judges  for  the  only 
crime  she  has  been  guilty  of." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  the  only  crime  she  has  been 
guilty  of?"  inquired  the  minister,  sharply. 

"By  the  same  means  by  which  I  know  you  to  be  a  mono 
maniac,"  replied  Mr.  Holyoke  firmly,  "  and,  in  this  matter, 
I  beg  you  will  not  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  provoke  me  to 
give  your  insanity  less  consideration  than  I  do  hers." 

The  minister's  mind  rebounded  from  this  rock  into  the 
region  of  doubt  and  uncertainty  again,  and  he  fell  to  his 
usual  resort  of  walking  to  and  fro  across  the  cabin.  At 
length,  he  withdrew  a  package  from  his  pocket,  and,  call 
ing  Deacon  Chapin's  attention  to  it,  opened  it  in  Mr.  Holy- 
oke's  presence,  and  asked  the  former  if  he  had  ever  seen 
anything  like  its  contents  before. 

The  Deacon  reluctantly  replied  that  he  had,  and  then 
Mr.  Holyoke  took  from  it  a  piece  of  birch  bark,  with  a 
sentence  written  upon  it,  in  the  handwriting  of  that  so 
rudely  withdrawn  from  Mr.  Moxon's  study  window,  on  an 
occasion  well  remembered  by  Deacon  Chapin  and  the  reader. 

"I  knew,"  pursued  Mr.  Moxon,  eyeing  Mr.  Holyoke 
closely,  as  he  perused  the  manuscript,  "  that  if  ever  I  could 
have  an  opportunity,  I  could  find  in  this  house  evidence 
that  Mary  Parsons  has  had  dealings  with  the  Evil  One ; 
and  if  Deacon  Chapin  will  tell  what  he  has  seen,  he  will 
identify  that,  and  all  the  manuscripts  I  have  in  my  hand,  as 
the  product  of  Satan,  or  his  emissary.  But  perhaps"  (added 
the  minister  in  a  tone  of  irony)  Deacon  Chapin  is  a  mono 
maniac." 


358  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  This  is  too  solemn  a  place  for  jesting,"  said  Mr.  Holyoke, 
bitterly,  "  but  if  the  devil  writes  as  bad  a  hand  as  this,  and 
can  afford  no  better  paper,  he  is  too  ignorant  and  too  poor 
to  do  much  damage  among  people  possessing  common  sense, 
and  decent  stationery." 

Saying  this,  he  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  Deacon 
Chapin  interposed,  and  said  that  he  considered  it  no  more 
than  proper,  as  he  had  been  alluded  to,  to  say  that  while  he 
had  seen  some  things  connected  with  a  similar  manuscript 
which  were  wholly  unaccountable,  and  while,  at  that  time, 
he  had  supposed  it  in  some  manner  connected  with  witch 
craft,  he  had  been  inclined  to  reconsider  his  conclusion. 
So  far  as  Mary  Parsons  was  concerned,  he  saw  no  way  to 
get  along  with  her  but  to  send  her  to  the  Bay,  if  she  could 
be  carried  there.  It  was  a  sad  case — a  terrible  judgment. 

Holyoke  listened  impatiently,  as  the  minister  and  the 
deacon  approached  the  bed.  "  There,"  said  he,  as  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  cold  forehead  of  the  dead  child,  and 
turned  to  his  two  companions,  "  there  is  another  victim  of 
law  without  justice.  Its  mother's  insanity  dates  from  her 
trial  for  slander,  and  the  full  measure  of  horrible  evils,  of 
which  this  is  but  one,  has  been,  and  is  to  be,  turned  out  by 
such  chimsy  machinery  as  men  make  when  they  take  the 
work  out  of  the  hands  of  Christianity,  and  endeavor  to 
regulate  altogether  minor  and  subordinate  social  evils." 

Mr.  Moxon  was  too  blind  to  see  the  full  force  of  this 
cutting  and  unanswerable  rebuke,  but  Deacon  Chapin  saw 
it,  and  felt  it,  and  never  forgot  it. 

During  this  brief  side  scene,  Mary  Holyoke  and  Hugh 
and  his  poor  wife  were  weeping  together,  in  one  touching 
group.  The  infanticide  had  rarely  seemed  more  natural  and 
rational  than  at  that  moment,  and  new  strength  had  taken 
possession  of  her.  She  sat  up  in  her  chair,  and,  as  her  old 
mistress,  kindly  and  with  many  tears,  and  with  such  words 
of  comfort  and  counsel  as  she  could  command,  told  her  of 


THE     BAY     PATH. 

her  probable  fate — of  the  trial  which  awaited  her,  and  its 
uncertain  issue — the  old,  strong  spirit  swelled  within  her, 
and,  grappling,  as  it  were,  with  her  destiny,  she  exclaimed, 
rising  firmly  to  her  feet,  "  Let  them  kill  me !  I  am  ready  ! 
It  will  be  no  comfort  to  me  to  live,  and  I  am  nothing  but 
a  curse  to  the  only  man  I  love  on  earth  !" 

Hugh  begged  her  not  to  talk  so,  but  she  told  him  to  be 
silent,  and,  turning  to  the  constable,  asked  him  when  he 
would  be  ready  to  start,  stating  that  she  should  never  be 
as  well  prepared  as  during  that  very  hour. 

Why  pause  to  tell  of  the  events  that  quickly  followed,  like 
shadows  passing  the  vision  in  a  dream  ; — of  the  hurried  in 
quest,  the  burial,  the  throngs  of  curious  eyes  that  peered 
into  and  around  the  cabin  during  the  day,  the  hasty  pre 
parations  for  the  journey,  the  farewells,  the  prayers,  the 
final  departure,  the  winding  of  the  cavalcade  up  the  hill 
along  the  Bay  Path — the  saddest  and  yet  the  most  excited 
cavalcade  that  had  ever  trodden  it. 

It  was  a  terrible  journey  for  an  invalid  like  Mary  to  un 
dertake.  She  was  seated  upon  a  horse,  behind  her  husband, 
and  supported  herself  by  leaning  upon  and  clasping  him. 
As  she  turned  to  take  a  farewell  view  of  the  valley  and 
village,  she  knew  that  she  should  never  see  them  again, 
and  only  hoped  that  she  should  die  before  she  reached  the 
Bay. 

The  party  was  made  up  of  the  constable,  Mr.  Moxon, 
Mr.  Holyoke,  three  or  four  other  men  who  adopted  the 
occasion  and  company  for  errands  of  their  own,  and  Goody 
Tomson,  who,  with  Hugh,  were  the  important  witnesses. 
Mr.  Moxon  went  down  determined  to  have  her  tried  for 
witchcraft,  but,  in  Holyoke's  company,  preserved  silence  in 
regard  to  his  designs.  The  party  were  more  than  a  week 
upon  the  way.  The  prisoner  grew  weaker  from  day  to  day. 
Several  times  she  fainted  upon  her  horse,  and  once  fell  to 
the  ground,  dragging  Hugh  with  her.  At  last,  more  dead 


360  THE     BAY     PATH. 

than  alive,  she  arrived  at  Boston,  and  was  taken  directly  to 
the  lodgings  of  the  magistrate. 

The  distress  into  which  the  case  threw  him  may  well  be 
imagined*  His  first  thought  related  to  the  sentence  which 
he  had  administered  to  her,  in  which  had  originated  her 
sickness  and  her  sin.  He  never  had  thought  of  its  first 
effect  without  a  pang,  he  had  never  heard  of  her  sickness 
without  sad  regrets,  and  the  last  blow  stunned  him.  It  was 
this  event  which  burst  in  upon  his  own  personal  trials,  which 
thrilled  with  horror  the  General  Court,  and  spread  a  sudden 
excitement  throughout  the  Bay  Settlements.  It  was  this 
event  which  afterwards  gave  a  new  coloring  to  his  own  case, 
and  helped  to  involve  him  in  his  deepest  humiliation.  The 
grand  crisis  in  his  affairs  had  arrived. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE  trial  of  a  witch  and  a  murderess  was  an  event  well 
calculated  to  excite  the  General  Court  and  the  people  of 
the  Bay  settlements ;  and  not  a  few  of  the  more  supersti 
tious  freely  expressed  their  convictions  that  both  the 
witchcraft  and  the  murder  were  consequences  of  Mr. 
Pynchon's  defection,  either  as  a  direct,  legitimate  result,  or 
a  special  judgment  from  Heaven.  In  this  manner,  the 
cases  of  the  venerable  heretic  and  witch-murderess  became 
associated  in  the  public  mind ;  and,  as  no  man,  possessing 
common  human  susceptibilities,  can  live  by  the  side  of  a 
great  superstition  without  coming  more  or  less  into  its 
shadow,  so  Mr.  Pynchon  became  touched  with  the  prevalent 
sentiment,  and  was  unable  entirely  to  separate  himself  from 
the  responsibility  of  events  with  which  he  had  no  direct 
connexion. 

Mary  Parsons  was  taken  to  the  jail,  for  safe  keeping  and 
for  rest.  She  was  so  feeble  as  to  be  entirely  unable  to 
appear  before  the  General  Court,  and  plead  to  the  charges 
against  her.  During  the  days  that  intervened,  Mr.  Moxon 
had  very  little  difficulty  in  so  arranging  matters  as  to  bring 
the  trial  for  witchcraft  into  the  order  of  precedence,  and, 
before  Mary  was  sufficiently  removed  from  death  to  be  tried 
for  her  life,  considerable  impatience  began  to  be  felt  in 
various  quarters  for  her  appearance. 

During  this  period,  Hugh,  though  rarely  allowed  to  see 
his  wife,  was  not  without  sympathetic  companionship ;  for, 
upon  the  second  day  after  his  arrival  at  Boston,  his  old, 
unknown,  and  still  disguised  benefactor,  arrived,  severely 

16 


362  THE     BAY     PATH. 

worn  by  the  journey,  and  giving  evidence  of  recent  illness, 
which  explained  to  Hugh  a  neglect  which  he  had  noticed 
for  several  weeks  previous  to  the  murder. 

The  old  man  was  more  thoroughly  disguised  than  on  the 
occasion  of  his  first  and  only  interview  with  Hugh,  and 
passed  for  an  Indian  wherever  he  appeared.  Matters  had 
arrived  at  such  a  condition  that  he  had  no  hesitation  in  in 
forming  Hugh  of  the  nature  of  his  connexion  with  Mary, 
and  the  pair  became  united  by  a  tender  and  touching  sym 
pathy.  Day  after  day  they  lingered  around  the  door  of 
the  jail,  and,  whenever  Hugh  was  admitted,  the  old  man 
waited  without  until  he  re-appeared,  and  then  listened,  with 
painful  interest,  to  the  report  which  he  brought,  and  the 
messages  she  sent. 

To  Mary,  the  decay  of  vitality  brought  the  full  return  of 
reason.  The  terrible  journey  over  which  she  had  passed, 
while  it  seemed  to  destroy  the  very  foundations  of  her 
physical  strength,  restored,  through  some  mysterious  pro 
cess  of  nature,  the  balance  of  her  mind.  The  past  was  with 
her  in  all  its  brightness  and  all  its  darkness.  The  terrible 
present  was  something  which  she  fully  realized.  The  future 
— dark,  uncertain,  and  strewn  thick  with  dangers — lay  be 
fore  her.  But  the  ties  which  bound  her  to  the  world  had 
nearly  all  been  severed.  There  was  but  one  left,  and  that 
was  her  husband.  Even  this  was  losing  its  power,  under 
the  conviction  that  she  was  destroying  his  position  and  his 
happiness,  and,  perhaps,  dragging  him  into  infamy.  And 
when  the  possibilities  of  the  future  impressed  themselves 
upon  her  mind — when  she  saw  that  she  might,  and  very 
probably  should,  lose  her  reason  again,  and  perhaps  be  left 
to  the  performance  of  still  further  deeds  of  violence,  the 
prospect  of  death  became  more  and  more  tolerable,  till  it 
was  entertained  with  pleasure. 

There  was  one  thought  which,  more  than  all  others,  re 
conciled  her  to  the  fate  which  seemed  inevitable.  She 


THE     BAY     PATH.  363 

believed  that  she  had  her  husband's  confidence — that  no 
power  could  deprive  her  of  it.  She  believed  that,  when 
she  should  die,  he  would  mourn  her  sincerely — that  he 
would  think  of  her  tenderly,  and  cherish  her  memory, 
even  should  it  be  trodden  under  feet  by  malice,  prejudice, 
and  superstition.  There  were  so  many  things  with  her 
that  were  worse  than  death,  and  so  little,  in  her  life  that 
was  desirable,  that  the  thought  of  dying  sometimes  filled 
her  heart  with  an  unutterable  peace. 

The  time  at  last  arrived  for  her  to  be  brought  forth.  The 
fact  that  she  was  to  appear  for  trial  had  been  noised  abroad, 
and  a  large  crowd  had  collected  about  the  jail,  in  order  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  one  who  had  been  represented  to  be  a 
monster  of  sin.  Hugh  and  his  disguised  companion  were 
at  the  door,  and,  as  she  made  her  appearance,  feebly  walk 
ing  between  two  officers,  and  saw  the  sea  of  upturned  and 
excited  faces,  and  comprehended  the  fact  that  she  was  the 
object  of  curiosity,  her  cheek,  which  was  deadly  pale  at 
first,  grew  bright  as  if  it  were  burning,  and  her  dark  eye 
flashed  defiance.  After  the  first  glance,  she  looked  around 
as  if  to  seek  familiar  faces,  and,  as  she  met  that  of  Hugh 
and  his  trembling  companion,  a  sweet  smile  overspread  her 
face,  and  she  bowed  to  them  with  a  cordiality  and  compo 
sure  that,  for  the  moment,  won  upon  the  sympathies  of  the 
crowd,  and  betrayed  it  into  a  murmur  of  admiration. 

A  preliminary  examination  under  the  forms  of  law  pecu 
liar  to  the  period,  resulted  in  the  finding  of  two  indictments 
against  her — one  for  witchcraft  and  one  for  murder ;  and 
when  she  was  brought  into  the  General  Court  and  arraigned 
on  the  first,  she  pleaded  "not  guilty"  with  a  vehemence  of 
tone  that  startled  the  ears  of  all. 

The  tale  of  her  trial  for  this  offence  would  be  a  disgusting 
record — weary  to  write,  and  sickening  to  read.  Mr.  Moxon 
was  the  principal  witness,  and  as  he  brought  forward  his 
flimsy  and  ridiculous  testimony,  and  exhibited  his  bits  of 


364  THE     BAY     PATH. 

epistolary  birch  bark,  and  laid  out  the  whole  ground  of  his 
evidence,  he  saw  for  himself  that  the  case  was  hopeless  for 
him,  for  he  met  on  every  hand  only  smiles  of  derision,  or 
blank  stares  of  incredulity.  The  facts  upon  which  he  had 
relied  for  proof,  began,  even  in  his  own  mind,  to  assume  a 
shadowy  and  unsatisfactory  aspect,  so  that  when  he  was 
allowed  to  resume  his  seat,  it  was  with  a  sensation  of  relief, 
and  a  somewhat  indistinctly  formed  conviction  that  he 
had  ruined  his  own  reputation,  and  saved  that  of  the 
prisoner. 

The  trial  occurred  at  a  date  more  than  forty  years  pre 
vious  to  the  great  delusion  of  New  England  on  the  subject 
of  witchcraft,  and  found  the  court  sufficiently  calm  to  be 
able  to  judge  between  valid  and  worthless  evidence,  so  that 
Mr.  Moxon's  impression  in  regard  to  the  effect  of  his  testi 
mony  was  almost  literally  correct.  The  other  evidence 
offered  amounted  to  nothing  against  the  prisoner,  and  she 
was  immediately  acquitted.  The  fact  seemed  rather  to  de 
tract  from  than  increase  her  strength,  and  she  almost  swooned 
upon  her  seat. 

As  soon  as  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  stand,  the 
second  indictment  was  read  to  her.  This  acciised  her  of 
murdering  her  child,  and  to  this  she  as  unhesitatingly 
pleaded  guilty  as  she  had  denied  the  charge  in  the  first  in 
dictment.  Of  the  proceedings  in  this  case,  preliminary  to 
her  sentence,  there  is  neither  record  nor  hint.  It  could  not 
be  that  one  whose  infirmities  were  so  well  known  as  those 
of  the  prisoner,  and  one  who  had  such  friends  near  her  as 
Mr.  Pynchon  and  Mr.  Holyoke,  as  well  as  a  townsman  in 
the  General  Court  who  was  disposed  to  regard  her  chari 
tably,  should  have  been  left  to  the  fate  which  naturally 
hung  upon  her  confession,  and  that  no  effort  whatever  was 
made  to  save  her.  The  fact  was  doubtless  proved,  that 
although  she  had  had  the  reputation  of  being  insane,  she 
had  been  to  all  appearance  rational  from  the  hour  of  the 


THE     BAT     PATH.  365 

murder;  or  from  the  time  when  the  people  crowded  into 
the  cabin  upon  Goody  Tomson's  alarm.  Whatever  the 
efforts  in  her  behalf  may  have  been,  or  whatever  aspect  the 
evidence  may  have  assumed,  she  was  condemned  to  death, 
and  received  her  sentence  with  entire  calmness  and  for 
titude. 

The  prisoner  was  carried  from  the  court  room  in  the 
arms  of  the  officers,  being  entirely  unable  to  walk  ;  and  the 
open  air  failed  to  revive  her  when  it  was  reached.  A  car 
riage  was  called,  and  amid  a  throng  of  curious  faces,  and  a 
tumult  of  insulting  cries,  the  poor  convict  was  conveyed  to 
her  prison  to  await  the  time  of  her  execution.* 

As  Mary  Parsons  retired  from  the  court,  a  large  number 
of  spectators  bore  her  company,  and  among  them,  Elizur 
Holyoke,  who  was  accompanied  by  the  deputy  from  Spring 
field,  his  brother-in-law,  Henry  Smith.  The  cause  of  the 
retirement  of  the  two  last  soon  became  apparent,  for  silence 
had  no  sooner  been  secured  than  it  was  announced  that  Mr. 
Pynchon  had  made  a  retraction  of  his  errors,  in  a  formal 
note  in  the  hands  of  the  clerk,  and  it  was  accordingly 
received  by  the  court,  and  read.  The  steps  which  led  to 
this  recantation  have  been  sufficiently  apparent  in  the  pro 
gress  of  the  narrative.  An  over  sensitive  conscientiousness, 
which,  when  acted  upon  by  popular  denunciation,  learned 
casuistry,  and  a  superstitious  interpretation  of  providential 
occurrences,  had  beclouded  his  reason  and  benumbed  his 
will,  was  the  active  agent  in  bringing  him  to  an  unwilling 

*  "  Mary  Parsons  of  Springfeild,  having  two  bills  of  incitement 
framed  agaynst  lier,  the  one  for  havinge  familyarity  with  the  devill,  as 
a  witch,  to  which  she  pleaded  not  guilty  <t  not  suffycyent  euidence 
appearing  to  proue  the  same,  she  was  acquited  of  witchcraft. 

"The  second  inditement  was  for  wilfully  tfc  most  wickedly  murder- 
inge  her  owne  child,  to  which  she  pleaded  guilty,  confest  the  fact,  <fe. 
accordinge  to  her  deserts,  was  condemned  to  dy.  per  Curiam."  . 

Colony  Records,  vol.  III.  page  229. 


366  THE     BAY     PATH. 

relinquishment  of  opinions  which  he  had  formed  in  his 
strong  and  healthy  years.* 

The  effect  of  this  retraction  on  the  General  Court  was 
just  what  it  ought  to  have  been  under  the  circumstances. 
They  could  not  help  but  see  that,  insomuch  as  Mr.  Pyn- 
chon  had  been  convinced  of  the  errors  of  his  book,  he  had 
been  convinced  against  his  will,  and  in  fact  against  his  con 
victions.  Their  action  in  the  matter,  while  it  greatly  dis 
appointed  and  terribly  mortified  him,  was  exactly  what  was 
necessary  to  restore  him  thoroughly  to  himself,  and  re-invest 
him  with  the  native  dignity  of  his  character. 

As  the  retraction  was  read  there  were  nods  and  winks 
among  the  members,  which  meant  much  to  Mr.  Pynchon's 
disadvantage.  He  had  humiliated  himself,  and  the  instant 
effect  of  his  action  was  to  diminish  a  certain  degree  of  re 
spect  which  the  court  had  not  ceased  to  entertain  for  him 
since  Mr.  Holyoke's  manly  defence  of  him  at  the  previous 
session.  There  seemed  to  arise  in  the  minds  of  nearly  all 
the  members  a  disposition  to  humiliate  him  still  further. 

*  The  halting,  unwilling,  unconvicted  spirit  in  which  this  retraction 
was  conceived  and  written,  is  sufficiently  apparent  in  the  document 
itself,  which  is  copied  from  page  229  of  vol.  iii.  Colonial  Records, 
where  it  immediately  follows  the  record  of  the  case  of  Mary  Parsons: 

"  Accordinge  to  the  Courts  advice,  I  have  conferred  with  the  Reve 
rend  Mr.  Cotton,  Mr  Non-ice  <fe  Mr.  Norton  about  some  poynts  of  the 
greatest  consequence  in  my  booke,  &  I  hope  I  have  so  explayned  my 
meaning  to  them  as  to  take  off  the  worst  construction ;  &  it  hath 
pleased  God  to  let  me  see  that  I  have  not  spoken  in  my  booke  so  fully 
of  the  price  and  merit  of  Christs  suffrings  as  I  should  have  done,  for  in 
my  booke  I  call  them  but  trialls  of  his  obedience,  yet  intendinge,  there 
by,  to  amplyfy  &  exalt  the  mediatoriall  obedyence  of  Christ,  as  the 
only  meritorious  price  of  mans  redemption  ;  but  now,  at  present,  I  am 
much  inclined  to  thinke  that  his  sufferinges  were  appoynted  by  God  foi 
a  further  end,  namely,  as  the  due  punishment  of  our  sins  by  way  of 
satisfaction  to  divine  justice  for  mans  redemption. 

"  Your  humble  servant  in  all  dutyfull  respects, 

"  WILLIAM  PYNCIION." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  367 

As  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  cajoled  and  threatened  and 
argued  into  a  virtual  surrender  of  his  position,  they  were 
determined  that  the  surrender  should  be  complete  and  in 
terms.  So  they  voted  that  as  through  the  blessing  of  God 
on  the  efforts  of  the  reverend  elders,  Mr.  Pynchon  appeared 
to  be  "  in  a  hopeful  way  to  give  good  satisfaction,"  they 
would  give  him,  in  accordance  with  a  request  which  it 
appears  he  had  made,  leave  to  return  home  in  the  following 
week,  taking  with  him  Mr.  Norton's  reply  to  his  book — in 
order  that  at  the  next  session  of  the  court,  to  be  held  in 
the  following  October,  he  might  appear,  having  had  full 
time  to  consider  the  matter,  and  then  "  give  all  due  satisfac 
tion."  They  considered  that  he  had  only  half  accomplished 
the  work  of  recantation,  and  judged  that  it  would  be  com 
paratively  easy,  and  perfectly  proper,  for  him  to  conplete 
the  task. 

Mr.  Pynchon  was  not  present  during  this  action,  but 
when  it  was  conveyed  to  him  by  Henry  Smith,  he  was  stung 
to  the  quick.  In  an  instant  the  whole  secret  of  the  affaiF 
flashed  upon  him,  and,  with  one  struggle  of  will,  he  had  cut 
loose  from  crafty  advisers,  zealous  counsellors,  private  mis 
givings,  and  the  whole  train  of  agents  and  influences  that 
had  enslaved  him,  and  was  once  more,  what  he  ever  after 
wards  remained,  a  man. 

The  court  was  not  unaware  of  the  sympathy  felt  for  Mr. 
Pynchon  at  home,  and,  while  doing  what  lay  in  its  power 
to  humiliate  him,  felt  it  necessary  to  do  something  to  con 
ciliate  his  friends  in  the  distant  settlement.  ..As  Henry 
Smith  was  a  son-in-law  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  had  received 
the  confidence  of  the  settlement  in  his  election  as  deputy, 
he  was  appointed  in  Mr.  Pynchon's  place  to  be  the  magis 
trate  of  Springfield.  How  much  there  may  have  been  of 
political  craft  in  this  appointment — how  far  it  was  intended 
to  stop  the  mouth  of  the  deputy,  and  retain  the  good  wil] 
of  the  family,  it  may  be  hard  to  determine. 


368  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Without  making  any  remarks,  Mr.  Smith  rose  in  his 
place,  and,  stating  that  it  was  very  necessary  for  him  to 
return  home,  requested  permission  to  do  so.  Permission  of 
absence  for  the  session  was  immediately  granted,  and  when 
he  sought  Mr.  Pynchon,  he  announced  to  him,  not  only  the 
action  of  the  court  upon  his  case,  but  also  his  own  appoint 
ment  as  magistrate,  and  his  intention  to  return  home  with 
his  father-in-law  in  the  following  week.  He  also  asked  for 
his  advice  in  regard  to  accepting  the  appointment  which 
had  been  conferred  upon  him.  Mr.  Pynchon  adjured  him 
by  all  means  to  obtain  his  commission  and  retain  it,  until  it 
should  seem  best  to  relinquish  it,  that  so  the  court  should 
not  appoint  some  one  in  his  place  whose  incompetency  or 
unpopularity  would  make  the  place  unpleasant,  and  subject 
the  family  to  unnecessary  mortifications. 

Once  more  to  the  mind  of  the  venerable  controvertist, 
returned  the  elasticity  and  confidence,  the  firm  poise  and 
free  action,  which  had  been  its  experience  when  he  boldly 
asserted  himself  among  the  magistrates.  Men  who  met 
him  were  surprised  to  find  him  in  excellent  spirits — almost 
careless  of  the  opinions  of  those  around  him,  unconcerned 
in  regard  to  his  position  in  the  colony,  and  hopeful  and  con 
fident  in  regard  to  the  future.  He  had  at  last  and  for  ever 
learned  that  self-respect  is  a  better  possession  than  the  good 
opinion  of  others,  that  nothing  is  too  costly  and  nothing  too 
precious  to  be  sacrificed  to  perfect  liberty  of  thought  and 
action,  and  that  his  declaration,  made  once  before  the  ma 
gistrates,  and  half  unmade  by  his  confession,  "  that  truth 
does  not  depend  for  its  authenticity,  vitality,  and  power  on 
the  breath  of  the  General  Court  of  Massachusetts,"  was  one 
to  be  maintained  and  acted  upon  in  all  his  future  dealings 
with  that  body. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

THE  arrangements  were  all  made,  at  last,  for  the  return 
of  the  Springfield  party,  and,  on  the  evening  previous  to 
the  day  appointed  for  setting  forth,  the  majority  of  them 
were  assembled  at  Mr.  Pyirchon's  room,  when  an  officer 
from  the  jail  arrived  with  a  message  from  Mary  Parsons, 
requesting  the  attendance  of  Mr.  Pynchon  and  Mr.  Holy- 
oke  at  her  bedside.  Upon  inquiry,  the  officer  stated  that 
Mary  was  very  low,  and  would  not  probably  survive  the 
night  ;  and  her  old  friends  lost  no  time  in  complying  with 
her  request,  and  following  him  to  her  cell.  They  found  her 
lying  upon  a  low  cot,  and  very  evidently  breathing  out  her 
last  hour.  She  turned  towards  them  her  black  and  fearfully 
hollow  eye,  and  a  faint  smile  of  recognition  and  gratitude 
illuminated  her  features,  as  she  opened  her  hand  to  Holyoke 
to  receive  his  silent  pressure.  The  two  gentlemen  hardly 
noticed  Hugh,  as  he  sobbed  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  cot, 
and  were  entirely  unmindful  of  the  old  Indian  who  sat  with 
compressed  lips  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  cell. 

Mary  looked  into  Holyoke's  eyes,  and  moved  her  lips, 
as  if  she  would  speak  to  him.  He  put  down  his  ear,  and 
caught  in  whispers,  "Tell  Mistress  Holyoke  that  I  thought  of 
her  while  I  was  dying,  and  hoped  that  she  would  never  for 
get  me.  Tell  her  to  be  a  friend  to  poor  Hugh,  and  to  be 
lieve  that  wilfully  I  never  did  anybody  wrong ;  and  oh  !  ask 
her  to  thank  God  for  me — for  I  am  weak  and  troubled — 
that  He  has  taken  me  from  the  terrible  death  I  was  sen 
tenced  to." 

Holyoke  could  not  restrain  his  tears,  and,  as  there  was 

16* 


370  THE     BAT     PATH. 

something  in  her  closing  words,  as  well  as  in  the  occasion, 
which  very  naturally  suggested  prayer,  he  asked  her  if  she 
would  like  to  have  Mr.  Pynchon  pray  with  her.  She  sig 
nified  her  assent,  and  the  old  man,  forgetting  custom,  preju 
dices,  and  self,  knelt  down  upon  the  cold  stone,  and  taking 
the  dying  woman's  hand  in  his  own,  gave  utterance  to  a 
prayer  so  tender,  so  fervent,  so  full  of  the  genuine  spirit  of 
charity,  that,  borne  on  the  wings  of  its  language,  her  own 
spirit  went  calmly  upwards  in  resignation,  trust,  and  hope. 
He  committed  her  soul  to  God.  He  prayed  for  her  hus 
band,  and  then,  as  if  he  could  forget  nothing  that  might 
come  into  the  dying  woman's  mind,  he  prayed  that  wher 
ever  in  the  broad  earth  the  feet  of  her  father  should  wan 
der,  they  might,  at  last,  be  found  walking  heavenward  in 
the  straight  and  narrow  path,  and  that  both  father  and 
child  might  be  re-united  in  a  land  where  sorrow  and  sigh 
ing  should  never  come. 

There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  room,  and  when  he  con 
cluded,  or,  rather,  while  his  closing  words  were  sounding, 
the  old  Indian  left  his  seat,  and  falling  upon  his  knees  by 
Mr.  Pynchon's  side,  buried  his  dusky  face  in  the  bed,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  most  distressing  groans. 

Mr.  Pynchon  and  Mr.  Holyoke  were  both  astonished, 
and  were  still  more  surprised  when  the  old  man  took  the 
hand  which  Mr.  Pynchon  had  relinquished,  and  pressed  it 
to  his  lips  and  covered  it  with  tears.  Such  emotion  com 
manded  respect,  and  the  two  visitors  stood  back,  and  re 
garded  with  deep  feeling  the  afflicted  group  before  them. 
Hugh  was  receiving  the  last  whispered  words  of  tenderness 
from  his  wife.  She  told  him  with  her  dying  expirations 
how  much  she  loved  him — how  much  more  than  everything 
else  she  was  leaving  in  the  world,  and  how  gladly,  to  save 
him  from  sorrow  and  trouble,  she  should  die. 

The  minutes  passed  away  until  an  hour  had  expired,  and 
it  became  evident  that  her  time  was  short.  Mr.  Pynchon 


THE     BAY     PATH.  371 

and  Mr.  Holyoke  pressed  her  hand,  and  bade  her  an  affec 
tionate  farewell.  A  long  passage  of  laborious  bfeathing 
terminated  all  intelligible  conversation  with  her,  and  her 
thin,  white  hands  became  chill  with  the  retiring  tide  of  life ; 
yet,  while  all  were  looking  to  see  her  breathe  her  last  a 
beautiful  smile  spread  over  her  countenance,  her  eyes  turned 
upwards,  and,  raising  both  hands,  she  brought  them  toge 
ther  and  crossed  them  over  her  breast,  at  the  same  time 
uttering  the  whispered  exclamation,  "  My  mother  and  my 
child  !" 

There,  above  her,  looking  down  through  the  prison  roofs 
and  celled  floors,  smiled,  at  last,  with  an  undiramed  and  un 
obstructed  radiance,  her  mother's  heavenly  eyes;  and  folded 
to  the  shadowy  bosom  beneath  them,  wrapped  in  ineffable 
repose,  lay  her  child.  Death  and  the  presence  in  which  she 
lay — all  earthly  loves  and  regrets — were  forgotten  in  the 
blissful  vision,  and  her  spirit  left  the  body  at  last  without  one 
struggle,  as  if  it  had  been  lifted  out  of  its  tenement  by  the 
serene  attraction  to  which  she  had  surrendered  her  being. 

"  She  is  gone,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  solemnly,  as  he  ad 
vanced  and  tenderly  closed  her  transparent  eyelids. 

Hugh  abandoned  himself  to  grief's  wildest  convulsions, 
but  the  old  Indian  rose  calmly  to  his  feet,  and,  turning  to 
Mr.  Pynchon,  said  in  a  deep  voice,  "  Gone  where  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  replied  Mr.  Pynchon,  startled  equally  by 
the  question  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  propounded. 
"  I  hope  she  has  gone  to  heaven." 

"  Well,  Square,''  pursued  the  old  man,  "  here  we  be,  and 
the  wheel  has  come  round.  There  lies  my  gal,  and  I 
wouldn't  wake  her  up  if  I  could  do  it  with  a  feather ;  for 
I've  been  thinkin'  on't  all  over,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind 
that  God  will  deal  square  with  her,  and  I'd  rather  have  her 
in  his  hands  than  anybody  else's.  If  I  didn't  think  the  Lord 
would  see  jest  how  she's  been  abused  and  knocked  round, 
and  would  allow  for  the  way  she  was  brung  up,  and  would 


372  THE     BAY     PATH. 

strike  out  all  he's  got  ag'in  her  exceptin'  that  that  didn't 
come  fi'ora  bein'  meddled  with,  and  insulted,  and  plagued,  I 
should  want  to  have  her  and  me  and  everybody  else  I  care 
anything  about  blown  into  a  thousand  flinders,  body  and 
soul,  and  all  the  pieces  lost." 

"Woodcock!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pynchon,  as  soon  as  he  be 
came  convinced  of  the  identity  of  the  speaker,  and  overcame 
his  astonishment  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak. 

"  Square  Pynchon,  God  bless  you !"  exclaimed  Wood 
cock,  and  the  two  old  friends  grasped  one  another's  hands 
with  a  mutual  cordiality  that  betrayed  the  honesty  of  their 
long  friendship. 

"  Square,"  resumed  Woodcock,  "  when  I  heard  that  you 
had  sentenced  my  gal  to  be  whipped — which  was  worse 
than  the  whippin'  a  great  sight — for  jest  givin'  widow 
Marshfield  as  good  as  she  sent,  I  felt  wicked  towards  you, 
and  I  never  should  'a  felt  right  ag'in  if  I  hadn't  heard  you 
prayin'  with  her.  I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could,  but  when 
you  begun  to  pray  for  me,  that  fetched  me."  And  the 
tears  ran  down  upon  the  old  man's  painted  face  as  freely 
as  if  he  were  but  a  child. 

"  I  am  glad,''  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  "  that  you  are  able  to 
sustain  your  afflictions  with  calmness  and  resignation ;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  if  your  state  of  mind  is  based  simply  on 
a  belief  in  God's  justice,  you  might  have  positive  joy  in 
thinking  of  and  trusting  in  His  mercy." 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  of  these  things  pretty  busy  for  a  few 
years,"  responded  Woodcock,  "  and  I  don't  look  at  'em  jest 
as  you  do.  I  believe  there's  a  God,  and  that  he's  jest  as  good 
as  he  can  be.  If  he  wasn't,  he'd  be  a  devil.  Now,  if  God 
made  us  he  knows  all  about  us,  and  he  knows  how  hard  it 
is  for  us  to  toe  the  mark,  and  how  little  we  know,  and  how 
one  thing  and  another  is  always  cuttin'  into  us,  and  how 
we  get  knocked  round,  and  fve  no  notion  that  he's  goin' 
to  come  down  on  all  alike.  Now,  I  don't  say  that  Mary  was 


THE     BAY     PATH.  373 

V 

very  good,  but  I  say  she  was  pretty  good  considering  and 
any  sensible  man  would  say  so,  and  I  b'lieve  God  is  a  good 
deal  more  sensible  than  any  of  us." 

"  He  knoweth  our  frame ;  He  remembereth  that  we  are 
dust,"  half  unconsciously  repeated  Holyoke,  who  was  listen 
ing  to  the  conversation. 

"  That's  it  exactly,"  pursued  Woodcock,  "  but  that's  no- 
thin'  to  do  with  mercy!  If  I  had  a  small  boy,  and  should 
tell  him  to  make  a  first-rate  ash  hoe-handle  out  of  a  pine 
stick,  and  to  do  it  with  his  jack-knife,  I  should  expect  he'd 
fall  consid'able  short  of  it  any  way,  and  not  have  very  good 
courage  to  do  the  best  he  could  ;  and  it  would  only  be  doin' 
the  fair  thing  by  him  to  give  him  his  board  and  clo'es,  and 
tell  him  he'd  done  pretty  well  considerin'.  There  wouldn't 
be  any  mercy  in  it." 

"  Comparisons  of  that  character  can  very  rarely  be  just," 
said  Mr.  Pynchon,  biting  his  lip  to  repress  a  smile.  "  The 
relations  between  man  and  man  are  very  diiferent  from 
those  existing  between  man  and  God." 

"Well,  I  can  see  that — that's  plain  enough — but  it 
always  seemed  to  me  as  if  we  was  apt  to  set  ourselves  too 
high.  We  ain't  anything  but  a  lot  of  little  fellers  trottin' 
round  among  the  bushes,  and  it's  sometimes  mighty  queer 
to  me  that  the  Lord  takes  any  notice  on  us  at  all.  Any  way, 
He  can't  think  so  much  of  us  as  we  do  of  ourselves.  It 
always  makes  me  laugh  to  hear  a  man  tellin'  how  the  world 
was  made  for  us,  and  how  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  was 
made  to  give  us  light,  and  all  creation  was  got  up  to  our 
order,  jest  as  if  we  wan't  born  'fore  we  knew  it,  and  didn't 
die  'lore  we  got  ready.  I've  got  a  consait  that  the  Lord 
made  us  'cause  he  wanted  to,  and  he  didn't  do  it  for  the 
sake  of  abusin'  on  us,  and  givin'  on  us  trouble  any  mor'n  you 
and  I,  Square,  would  abuse  anything  we  had  got  up,  when 
it  wan't  strong  enough  to  do  us  any  damage." 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  your  notions,"  replied 


374  THE     BAY     PATH. 

Mr.  Pynchon,  "  but  you  have  not  got  hold  of  the  whole  of 
it.  I  know  that  we  are  too  apt  to  feel  that  everything  was 
made  for  us,  partly  because  we  are  proud,  and  partly 
because  we  enter  so  harmoniously  into  the  structure  of  a 
universe,  each  part  of  which  ministers  to  our  wants,  that  it 
is  a  very  natural  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  was  made  only 
for  that  ministry.  Yet  there  is  such  a  thing  as  thinking  so 
meanly  of  ourselves  as  to  dishonor  our  Maker.  Nothing  is 
insignificant  that  God  thought  worthy  to  make  and  takes 
care  to  preserve.  If  an  insect  is  not  to  be  despised,  then 
surely  man  is  of  importance,  and  if  he  is  of  sufficient 
importance  to  receive  the  constant  care  and  protection  of 
God — to  be  the  subject  of  His  kind  and  never  failing 
providence — then  he  is  worthy,  in  some  high  sense,  to  be 
honored  by  himself,  and  accountable  in  some  high  and  posi 
tive  respect  for  his  behavior." 

"  I  presume  you're  right,  Square,  and  p'raps  I  said  more'n 
I  meant  to.  All  I  wanted  to  say  was  that  I  didn't  b'lieve 
that  the  Lord  would  expect  so  much  of  us  as  if  it  was  all  a 
straight  road  and  no  stumps." 

When  Woodcock  closed  his  characteristic  explanation,  a 
sigh  that  was  half  a  groan  found  impulsive  utterance  at  his 
lips.  Returning  suddenly  from  his  momentary  diversion, 
he  saw,  lying  cold  and  lifeless  before  him,  the  object  of  long 
years  of  care  and  self-denial ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  the 
question  arose  within  him.  "  What  am  I  to  live  for  now  ?" 
He  could  not  mourn  for  his  daughter.  He  was  glad  that 
she  had  escaped  from  a  long  and  most  unjust  persecution. 
He  was  glad  that  she  had  died  acquitted  of  the  crime  of 
witchcraft,  of  which  she  had  long  been  suspected,  and  glad 
that  she  had  evaded  the  execution  of  an  ignominious 
sentence  ;  yet  the  thought  that  he  had  no  one  left  to  labor 
and  be  anxious  for  was  one  of  unmingled  pain. 

There  came  to  him,  also,  the  thought  of  the  com 
panionship  to  which  he  had  so  long  submitted,  and  to 


THE     BAY     PATH. 

which,  if  he  should  continue  in  the  country,  he  must  still 
submit,  and  life  seemed  sad  and  even  disgusting  to  him. 
Outlawed,  at  first,  by  comparatively  trivial  offences,  new 
enactments  severely  punishing  those  who  might  lead  a 
vagabond  life  among  the  Indians  had  forbidden  his  return 
to  civilized  life,  and  he  saw  nothing  before  him  but  an 
insipid  and  valueless  existence.  With  a  sad  voice  and 
dejected  air,  he  gave  expression  to  his  feelings  to  Mr. 
Pynchon. 

"  I  can  sympathize  with  you,"  replied  that  gentleman, 
"  for  all  the  great  aims  of  my  life,  with  one  exception,  are 
either  frustrated  or  accomplished.  You  have  heard,  doubt 
less,  how  they  have  been  dealing  with  me,  and  know  that  I 
have  no  longer  any  power  in  the  colony,  and  have  become 
the  object  of  persecution." 

"  I  know  all  about  it,  Square,  but  I  never  should  'a  said 
a  word,  if  you  hadn't.  It's  corne  out  jest  where  I  s'posed 
'twould  fetch  up,  more'n  ten  years  ago.  I  knew  there  was 
some  of  the  same  stuff  in  you  that  there  was  in  me,  and 
I  knew  it  was  a  kind  of  stuff  that  always  leaked  out  of 
a  man  'fore  he  died.  If  you  are  any  like  me,  you  feel 
a  mighty  sight  better  with  it  out  than  in. — Now  if  it's 
a  fair  question,  what  is  the  thing  that  you  hav'n't  done  that 
you're  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"  To  endeavor,  by  God's  grace,  to  become  fully  prepared 
to  meet  death,  and  the  scenes  to  which  it  leads,"  replied 
Mr.  Pynchon,  with  a  solemn  voice;  adding,  as  he  saw  a 
thoughtful  shadow  passing  over  Woodcock's  face ;  "  it  is  a 
great  aim — worthy  of  the  last  years  of  your  life  as  well  as 
mine — more  worthy  probably  than  any  object  for  which 
you  have  thus  far  lived." 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  of  this,  too,  in  my  way,"  responded 
Woodcock.  "  I  was  thinkin'  on  it  when  I  was  settin'  on  the 
floor,  jest  as  you  come  in.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
Lord  keeps  a  pretty  close  look-out  for  us,  if  we  be  small. 


376  THE     BAY     PATH. 

There  was  my  wife — she  lived  out  all  her  happy  days,  and 
when  the  Lord  saw  what  she  was  comin'  to,  she  died. 
I  thought  it  was  mighty  hard,  but  bein'  left  with  my  little 
gal  kind  o'  altered  me,  and  her  livin'  with  your  Mary  was 
good  for  her,  and  she  was  happier'n  I  ever  could  make  her. 
Well,  Mary  lived  out  all  of  her  happy  days,  and  now,  jest 
afore  the  law  is  goin'  to  murder  her,  she  goes  to  sleep  like  a 
baby,  and  can't  be  hurt  by  anybody.  Now  He's  choked 
me  off  from  pretty  much  everything  I  wanted,  and  I  can't 
think  of  anything  that  he  wants  me  for  now  but  to  get 
religion  and  'tend  up  to  it."  The  old  man's  voice  was 
honest  and  earnest,  and  his  lip  quivered  with  genuine 
emotion,  as,  in  his  homely  way,  he  thus  recognised  the 
operations  of  Providence,  and  adopted  the  lesson  they  were 
designed  to  inculcate. 

As  the  two  old  friends  closed  their  conversation,  the 
officers  of  the  jail  appeared,  and  announced  that  preparations 
were  to  be  made  for  the  disposal  of  the  body  of  the  deceased. 
This  recalled  Woodcock  to  the  painful  features  of  the 
occasion,  overwhelmed  Hugh  with  a  fresh  influx  of  grief, 
and  informed  the  visitors  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  retire. 
A  conference  was  first  held,  and,  it  being  determined  by 
the  officers  that  Mai-y's  burial  should  occur  early  on  the 
following  morning,  Mr.  Pynchon  promised  for  himself,  and 
in  behalf  of  his  party,  to  be  in  attendance,  and  so,  passing 
out  with  Holyoke,  bade  Woodcock  and  Hugh  a  good 
night. 

The  events  that  followed  were  all  like  the  experiences  of 
a  troubled  dream  to  the  grief-stricken  Hugh — the  sleepless 
night  passed  with  Woodcock  within  the  jail,  the  homely 
but  hearty  words  of  comfort  uttered  by  the  latter,  the 
gathering  of  friends  in  the  early  grey  of  the  morning,  the 
words  of  a  prayer  pronounced  in  deep  solemnity  by  a 
minister,  the  nailing  of  the  rough  coffin,  its  transportation 
in  a  yard  back  of  the  jail  to  a  spot  where  a  grave  had  but 


THE     BAT     PATH.  377 

just  been  completed,  the  hollow  resonance  of  the  coffin 
as  the  first  earth  fell  upon  it,  the  final  closure  of  the  opening, 
and  the  trampling  down  of  the  sward  above  a  bosorn 
which  had  loved  him  as  none  other  could — all  these  events 
were  dimly  realized,  and,  before  he  began  calmly  to  ap 
prehend  the  scenes  through  which  he  had  passed,  he,  with 
the  whole  Spring  field  party,  had  left  the  sea-coast,  and 
once  more  within  the  Bay  Path — with  the  fresh  leaves  of 
June  above  his  head,  and  the  sweet  air  of  June  around 
him — was  plunging  into  the  broad  forest  that  intervened 
between  the  Bay  settlements  and  the  Connecticut.  Wood 
cock,  after  a  private  conference  with  Mr.  Pynchon,  was  left, 
behind,  to  find  his  way  westward  at  his  own  convenience. 

As  the  party  arrived  at  Springfield,  after  a  tedious  ride, 
various  emotions  exercised  its  different  members.  Mr. 
Pynchon  was  happy  at  heart — and  most  happy  to  grasp  the 
hands  of  his  closely  clinging  friends.  Henry  Smith  was 
mortified  with  his  commission,  and  was  pained  by  any 
allusion  to  it.  It  somehow  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
received  and  appropriated  the  price  of  his  father's  dishonor. 
Mr.  Moxon  was  discontented,  and  excessively  mortified  at 
his  failure  to  sustain  his  charge  against  Mary ;  and  Hugh 
felt  that  life,  which  had  once  been  so  sweet  and  joyous  to 
him,  was  a  ruined  and  pleasureless  possession. 

The  impression  produced  upon  the  residents  of  the 
plantation  by  the  recital  of  the  events  that  had  transpired 
at  the  Bay,  was  painfully  profound.  There  were  open 
threats  of  leaving  the  jurisdiction,  but  Mr.  Pynchon  begged 
all  to  wait  for  the  development  of  events,  and,  by  his  own 
cheerfulness  and  equanimity,  succeeded  in  controlling  the 
rising  discord,  and  restoring  patience  and  peace  to  the 
people. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

No  member  of  the  party  returning  from  the  Bay  could 
have  been  more  rejoiced  upon  arriving  \vithin  sight  of  the 
Connecticut  than  Goody  Tomson.  Her  three  youngest 
children  had  been  left  in  the  care  of  Peter  Trimble,  as,  in 
fact,  the  only  willing  nurse  to  be  found ;  and,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  the  youngest  of  the  three  had  but  recently 
missed  some  of  the  tenderest  ministries  of  maternity,  it 
may  well  be  imagined  that  Peter  and  the  mother  would  be 
oppressed,  the  one  with  onerous  cares  and  the  other  with 
feverish  anxieties. 

It  may  also  be  imagined  that,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
they  would  be  extremely  happy  to  see  each  other ;  and  in 
truth  they  were.  The  woman  found  Peter  within  her  cabin, 
engaged  in  the  endeavor  to  ascertain  the  effect  of  turkey's 
oil  in  softening  his  heavy  shoes,  and,  as  he  used  his  hand  in 
the  application  of  that  article,  the  first  necessity  arising  from 
the  impulsive  greeting  that  passed  between  the  two  friends 
was  a  basin  of  water  and  some  soap,  in  order  that  Goody 
Tomson  might  so  far  clean  her  hands  as  to  be  able  to  "  take 
off  her  things."  Before  any  progress  was  made,  however, 
she  inquired  for  her  children.  Peter  told  her  that  they 
were  well,  and  quieted  her  curiosity  in  regard  to  the  place 
where  they  were  all  hidden  by  mysterious  nods  and  winks, 
which  were  intended  to  convey  the  command  to  wash  her 
hands  and  take  care  of  herself,  and  the  intimation  that  he 
would  then  be  ready  for  particulars. 

After  the  preliminaries  were  finished,  and  Peter  had 
brought  out  and  placed  before  the  mistress  of  the  house  a 


THE     BAY    PATH.  379 

plate  of  severely  broken  victuals,  he  sat  down  opposite  to 
her,  and,  assuming  an  air  of  great  complacency,  began. 

"  You  see,  pretty  quick  after  you  went  away,  the  baby 
began  to  cry  like  smoke.  I'll  bet  she  cried  one  night  aa 
much  as  five  hours.  Land  ahead  !  I  never  see  a  little  crit 
ter  tune  up  so  in  my  life.  Well,  that  set  the  other  two  a- 
going,  and  I  found  I  couldn't  stand  it.  So,  after  they'd  all 
cried  till  they  got  tuckered  out,  and  went  to  sleep,  I  went 
to  thinking  of  it,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  I  could  do  better 
than  tend  babies  while  you  was  gone,  and  I  reckoned  I  might 
do  something  towards  working  them  off.  Anyhow,  I  locked 
them  into  the  cabin  the  next  morning,  and  put  for  the  neigh 
bors.  I  told  them  I  believed  the  children  would  die  if  they 
couldn't  go  where  there  was  women ;  and  I  hung  on  till  I 
got  rid  of  one  here,  and  another  there,  and  another  there, 
in  the  course  of  the  day  ;  and,  come  night,  I  went  to  bed 
laughing  over  it,  and  slept  as  sound  as  a  nut.  By  George ! 
Esther"  (exclaimed  Peter,  smitten  with  a  sudden  spasm  of 
affection,  and  rising  to  his  feet  and  walking  around  the  table 
to  her  side,  to  give  her  hand  a  renewed  shake),  "  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  !  Why  don't  you  say  something  to  a  feller  ?" 

Poor  Esther,  grievously  disappointed  at  not  meeting  with 
her  children,  and  her  motherly  sensibilities  shocked  at 
Peter's  apparent  heartlessness,  was  obliged  to  give  over  her 
efforts  to  repress  her  feelings,  and,  filling  her  mouth,  as  if 
to  dam  up  the  accumulating  flood  as  long  as  possible, 
burst,  at  last,  into  a  complex  paroxysm  of  mastication  and 
tears. 

"  Land  ahead  !"  exclaimed  Peter,  rising  and  shaking  his 
fists  with  excess  of  sympathetic  irritation,  "  why  don't  you 
have  that  old  tooth  out  ?  You  never'll  take  any  comfort 
till  you  do." 

Esther,  quite  willing  to  see  Peter  misled  in  regard  to  the 
real  cause  of  her  grief,  continued  to  fill  her  mouth  and 
weep,  but  did  not  dare  to  trust  herself  with  speech.  Her 


380  THE     BAT     PATH. 

unrestrained  mastication,  however,  led  Peter  to  mistrust 
that  he  had  not  judged  correctly  of  the  cause  of  her  un- 
happiness,  and  he  inquired  if  her  back  did  not  ache  terribly 
after  riding  so  far,  stating  that  it  not  unfrequently  affected 
him  in  that  manner,  and  that  he  didn't  wonder  she  was  per 
fectly  used  up. 

Goody  Tomson  must  have  been  uncommonly  perverse 
not  to  be  soothed  by  this  deep  and  appreciative  ministry, 
and  Peter  was  rejoiced,  at  last,  to  see  her  jaws  work  less 
actively  and  powerfully,  and  her  tears  fall  less  copiously,  as 
she  subsided  into  her  usual  genial  placidity. 

"  Where  did  you  say  the  baby  was  ?"  inquired  Esther, 
looking  fixedly  upon  her  trencher. 

Peter  had  not  said,  but  he  informed  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  she  is  too  young  to  be  put  out  ?"  con 
tinued  the  mother,  still  busy  with  her  victuals. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  what  I  think,"  replied  Peter,  putting 
his  feet  upon  the  table  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "  If 
the  people  that  take  her  don't  find  any  fault,  it  stands  us  in 
hand  to  keep  mum.  Young  ones  are  in  the  way  unless  you 
happen  to  take  to  them  pretty  strong ;  and  they  eat  like 
mischief  anyhow,  and  if  anybody's  willing  to  keep  them, 
why,  there's  so  much  saved  in  elbow  grease.  That's  the 
way  I  look  at  it." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  responded  the  bereaved  mother,  with 
renewed  sobbing. 

"  I  kind  o'  reckoned,"  pursued  Peter,  "  that  when  you 
got  back,  you'd  be  sick  for  a  few  days,  and  wouldn't  want 
to  have  the  children  round  ;  and  that  would  give  the  people 
that  have  got  them  a  chance  to  get  tied  to  them  more ; 
and  perhaps  they'd  want  to  keep  them  for  good  and  all. 
Now,  if  you'll  go  to  bed  I'll  go  round  and  tell  them  you've 
got  home,  and  are  crying  for  your  children,  but  that  you're 
all  tired  to  death,  and  ain't  fit  to  take  care  of  them,  and 
that  they'll  have  to  keep  them  a  little  longer." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  381 

At  this  moment  the  plans  of  Peter  were  dashed  to  the 
ground  by  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door,  and  the  entrance 
of  a  dirty  girl,  who  carried  in  her  arms  a  dirty  bundle, 
which  she  deposited  in  Goody  Tomson's  arms,  with  the 
words,  "  There's  your  worryin'  little  young  one  that  I've 
been  takin'  care  of  till  I've  about  broke  my  back.  Next 
time  you  go  away  I  hope  you'll  leave  somebody  else  to  home 
besides  this  lazy  lummox  of  a  Peter  Trimble." 

This  saucy  speech  was  greatly  broken  in  its  effect  upon 
both  Peter  and  Esther  by  the  emotions  which  had  taken 
pre-possession  of  them.  Peter  was  distressed  to  witness 
the  return  of  the  child.  He  had  been  extremely  anxious 
to  see  a  very  decided  reduction  of  the  stock  before  coming 
permanently  into  the  establishment.  In  the  widow's  first 
distress,  he  saw  her  willing  to  get  rid  of  the  older  children, 
and  he  could  conceive  no  reason  why  she  would  not  willingly 
part  with  all  of  them,  provided  they  could  be  got  into  good 
places.  He  perceived,  at  last,  that  the  baby  was  a  fixture. 
He  saw  it,  as  well  in  the  caresses  which  its  mother  was  lav 
ishing  upon  the  child,  as  in  the  insolent  language  which  its 
involuntary  nurse  had  used. 

The  mother,  in  her  joy  at  once  more  clasping  the  babe  in 
a  pair  of  arms  that,  by  eight  or  nine  years'  practice,  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  themselves  without  one,  hardly 
heard  the  insult  offered  to  the  man  she  had  chosen  to  supply 
the  place  of  the  lamented  Tomson.  In  fact,  she  seemed  to 
forget  his  presence  in  the  superabundance  of  her  joy  upon 
again  gaining  the  possession  of  her  treasure. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Peter,  after  the  unpleasant  girl 
had  departed,  and  Goody  Tomson  had  become  in  some 
measure  conscious  that  there  was  a  whole  world  outside 
of  her  baby,  "  how  about  Mary  Parsons,  and  the  rest  of 
them  ?" 

"Mary  Parsons!"  exclaimed  Goody  Tomson,  surprised 
that  the  subject  had  not  been  thought  of  before,  "why,  she 


382  THE     BAT     PATH. 

came  within  an  inch  of  being  hung,  and  she  would  'a  been 
if  she  hadn't  'a  died." 

"  Mary  Parsons  isn't  dead,  is  she  ?"  exclaimed  Peter,  in  a 
tone  of  genuine  concern. 

"  Well,  you  may  ask  the  rest  of  them,  if  you  don't  be 
lieve  me.  They'll  tell  you  she's  dead,  and  that  she  died  in 
jail." 

"  Died  in  jail  ?  Mary  Parsons  died  in  jail  ?"  and  Peter 
slapped  his  thigh,  and  walked  across  the  room  under  strong 
emotion. 

"  What  makes  you  act  so  ?"  inquired  his  companion. 

"  Won't  you  never  tell  anybody  if  I'll  tell  you  some 
thing  ?"  inquired  Peter,  sitting  down,  and  drawing  his  chair 
up  to  the  widow. 

"  No — never,  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Well,"  pursued  Peter,  "  I  come  very  near  marrying  that 
girl  once — very  near  ;"  and  he  nodded  emphatically,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  as  if  some  object  at  an  immense 
distance  were  absorbing  his  attention. 

Goody  Tomson  blushed  scarlet,  and  while  attempting  to 
feed  her  child  with  the  scant  remains  of  her  meal,  said,  "  I 
never  thought  so  bad  of  Mary  as  other  folks  did,  but  I  do  won 
der  what  such  a  man  as  you  could  see  in  such  a  woman  as  Aer." 

Peter  detected  the  motive  that  lay  coiled  beneath  the 
widow's  somewhat  emphatic  language,  and  followed  up  the 
attack.  "  I  believe,"  he  pursued,  "  that  she  didn't  make  any 
fuss  when  her  baby  was  took  away  from  her,  and  brought 
here.  Some  people  are  willing  to  do  what  is  best  for  them, 
and  some  ain't.  I  don't  find  any  fault.  Perhaps  it  isn't  any 
of  my  business,  but  there's  such  a  thing  as  having  more  in  a 
family  than  is  comfortable  all  round,  especially  "  (and  Peter 
rose  and  swaggered  towards  the  window)  "  if  a  man  is  pret 
ty  independent,  and  don't  care  much  what  becomes  of  him." 

As  Peter  finished  this  cruel  speech,  he  saw  the  widow  put 
ting  a  huge  bone  into  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes  all  afloat 


THE     BAY     PATH.  383 

again.  What  concession  she  would  have  made  at  this  junc 
ture,  it  is  impossible  to  state  ;  but,  at  the  moment,  the  door 
was  again  opened,  and  another  child,  who  had  had  a  kind 
keeper,  came  in,  and  bounded  to  a  seat  in  his  mother's  lap, 
by  the  side  of  the  baby. 

This  one  had  hardly  been  thoroughly  kissed  (the  bone 
having  suddenly  been  withdrawn  from  the  mother's  mouth 
for  that  purpose),  when  the  third,  quite  old  enough  to  pull 
the  latch  herself,  being  the  identical  child  that  Peter  had 
reco'mmended  to  Hugh  and  Mary  on  a  previous  occasion, 
rushed  into  the  widow's  arms,  and  quite  overwhelmed  her 
with  caresses. 

Peter  looked  at  the  group  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
vexation  and  resignation,  took  his  hat  from  a  nail,  put  it  on, 
walked  out  of  the  door,  and  turned  his  steps  down  the  street, 
giving  utterance  to  a  kind  of  music  that  he  had  the  happy 
faculty  of  producing  by  the  change  of  a  hiss  into  a  whistle, 
without  the  necessity  of  puckering  his  lips.  He  went  out 
to  think,  and  to  make  up  his  mind,  if  possible,  upon  what  it 
Avas  best  for  him  to  do. 

Those  three  children,  it  had  become  evident,  must  re 
main,  at  present,  with  their  mother.  JJobody  wanted  them 
— nobody  would  keep  them  ;  and  if  he  and  Goody  Tomson 
should  consummate  the  little  arrangement  that  had  been  ini 
tiated  betAveen  them,  he  would  be  obliged  to  work  for  and 
support  the  children.  From  this  subject  his  mind  ran  off 
upon  Mary  Parsons,  whose  name  very  naturally  suggested 
that  of  Hugh ;  and  Peter  quickened  his  pace,  under  a  deter 
mination  to  seek  his  old  crony,  and  ask  for  his  advice. 

Quite  unexpectedly  he  met  him  on  his  Avay  to  the  old 
cabin.  The  tears  sprang  into  the  poor  felloAv's  eyes  as  he 
grasped  Peter's  hand  ;  and  the  latter,  with  all  his  shallow- 
ness,  could  not  but  be  touched  by  his  grief,  and  the  AVOU- 
derfully  sad  change  it  had  Avrought  upon  him.  Peter  Avas 
even  sufficiently  considerate  to  alloAV  Hugh  to  tell  his  story 


384  THE     BAY     PATH. 

— his  long  story  of  Mary's  terrible  sufferings,  of  her  calm 
death,  her  early  morning  burial,  and  of  all  his  sorrows — his 
sorrowful  memories,  and  his  sorrowful  prospects. 

When  he  had  relieved  his  burdened  heart,  and  Peter  had, 
so  far  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do  it,  given  him  his  sym 
pathy,  the  latter  assumed  the  lead  of  the  conversation,  and 
revealed  to  Hugh  the  peculiar  trials  that  were  associated 
with  his  matrimonial  prospects. 

"If  I  could  get  rid  of  them  children,"  said  Peter,  "  the 
widow  would  stand  me  in  at  a  snug  little  profit,  but  if  I've 
got  to  feed  them,  they'll  swallow  the  Avhole  place,  and  all  I 
can  do  on  it.  I've  got  to  look  out  for  number  one.  By  the 
way,  Hugh,  I  wonder  if  the  magistrate  will  make  me  pro 
mise  to  support  the  children  as  well  as  the  widow,  when  he 
comes  to  marry  me  ?" 

Hugh  said  he  presumed  not,  and  then  commenced  very 
warmly  in  behalf  of  his  child's  old  nurse.  He  extolled  her 
generosity,  her  genial  temper,  her  excellent  good-nature 
and  her  industry,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  compliment 
her  for  her  youthful  appearance — urging  Peter  not  to  dis 
appoint  her,  vindicating  her  parental  sympathies,  and  pro 
nouncing  her  an  excellent  match  for  any  man  whom  she 
might  honor  with  her  choice.  Hugh  did  not  close  his  eulo- 
gium  of  the  widow  until  he  had  discharged,  so  far  as  possi 
ble,  the  large  debt  of  gratitude  he  owed  her,  and  had  thrown 
out  the  intimation  to  Peter's  selfishness  that  the  children 
wTould  soon  be  able  to  help  him,  and  would  require  but  lit 
tle  of  his  care. 

During  all  this  address,  Peter  stood  and  stroked  his  face 
in  thoughtful  complacency,  and  looked  down  upon  his  legs 
with  a  pleasant  smirk  that  showed  his  intense  gratification. 
At  the  close  he  looked  up  at  Hugh,  and  said,  "  Well,  what 
did  I  tell  you  ?  You  begin  to  find  out  that  I  know  some 
thing  about  women,  don't  you  ?  As  you  say,  the  children 
may  help  a  little  one  of  these  days,  and,  on  the  whole,  I 


THE     BAT     PATH.  385 

suppose  I  may  as  well  marry  her,  and  have  it  over  with. 
Between  you  and  I,  Hugh,  I  believe  she'd  die  if  I  should 
quit  her." 

"  Oh,  you  will  marry  her,  I  know  you  will,"  said  Hugh. 
"  Tou'll  marry  her  to  please  me,  won't  you,  Peter  ?" 

"  By  George !"  responded  Peter,  with  a  chivalric  touch 
of  self-devotion,  "  I'll  do  it  if  you  say  so,  any  way.  I  never 
refused  you  anything  yet,  and  I  ain't  going  to  begin  now. 
If  you  say  marry,  marry  it  is ;  and  if  you  name  the  time 
when  you'd  like  to  eat  a  few  of  Goody  Trimble's  nutcakes, 
I'll  see  that  the  chair  is  set  and  the  platter  on  the  table." 

Thus  devoting  himself  to  matrimony  and  his  friend,  Peter 
took  leave  of  Hugh,  and  hurried  back  to  Goody  Tomson, 
under  a  vague  impression  that  so  precious  a  creature  as  the 
former  had  described  her  to  be,  must  necessarily  be  over 
whelmed  with  suitors  as  soon  as  it  should  become  known 
that  she  had  returned  from  the  Bay. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that,  notwithstanding  Goody  Tom- 
son's  fatigues  and  maternal  incumbrances,  she  was  most 
happy,  before  closing  her  eyes  in  sleep,  to  receive  Peter's 
plighted  troth  without  reservation,  and  to  promise  in  return 
to  make  him  a  happy  man  after  the  crops  should  be  gathered 
in,  in  the  fall.  In  the  meantime,  it  was  arranged  that  he 
should  expend  his  labors  upon  the  estate  of  Tomson  de 
ceased,  and  act  as  the  nocturnal  protector  of  the  family,  as 
he  had  done  for  several  months. 

Two  or  three  days  after  his  return  from  the  Bay,  Mr. 
Pynchon  invited  his  children  to  his  house — at  the  same 
time  giving  them  an  intimation  that  important  business  was 
to  be  advised  upon,  at  the  interview.  The  party  was — 
strange  as  it  may  appear — the  most  joyous  one  that  had  ga 
thered  in  the  old  family  house  for  many  years.  The  children 
of  Holyoke  and  Henry  Smith,  loosened  from  the  strait  rules 
of  decorum  which  at  that  time  curbed  the  natural  overflow 
of  childish  hilarity,  filled  the  house  with  their  mirthful  mu- 

17 


386  THE     BAY     PATH. 

sic,  while  parent  and  grand-parent  listened,  not  only  with 
out  remonstrance  but  with  positive  delight. 

It  seemed  refreshing,  after  the  wrangles,  and  discomforts, 
and  trials,  and  distresses,  to  taste  once  more  of  life  at  its 
fountain — to  take  it  to  the  lips  as  it  leaped  up  into  the  sun 
shine  from  youthful  spirits,  and  once  more  to  forget,  in 
innocent  pleasure,  the  various  ills  that  had  beset  the  path 
of  each.  Of  all  this  joy  Mr.  Pynchon  was,  in  truth,  the  ra 
diating  centre.  It  was  his  buoyant  spirit  that  released  the 
burden  from  the  spirits  of  his  children,  and  their  happiness 
that  gave  license  to  the  limbs  and  the  laugh  of  the  grand 
children  ;  and  the  mutual  reaction  from  spirit  to  spirit  that 
made  the  meeting  happier  than  the  family  had  known,  even 
in  the  times  of  its  power  and  prosperity. 

When  at  last  the  older  members  of  the  party  had 
become  tired  of  the  frolics  of  the  younger,  the  latter  were 
sent  into  another  room ;  and  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  a  warm 
smile  upon  the  affectionate  group  left  around  him,  said, 
"  Well,  children,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  which,  as 
it  concerns  my  happiness,  certainly  should  concern  yours. 
You  have  been  pained  to  see  me  lose  my  influence  in  this 
colony,  for  which  I  have  suffered  so  much — and  I  will  not 
deny  that  it  has  been  to  me  a  cause  of  very  deep  unhappiness, 
but  the  pang  is  past.  I  have  never  felt  more  buoyant-hearted 
than  now,  and  life  never  seemed  sweeter  or  more  desirable. 
But  I  cannot,  and  I  must  not,  live  in  bonds.  After  having 
been,  during  my  whole  lifetime,  subject  to  bondage,  and 
among  its  last  years  having  tasted  of  freedom,  I  shall  not 
again  come  under  the  yoke.  In  this  plantation,  my  useful 
ness  is  at  an  end.  I  am  not  allowed  to  forward  its  affairs 
by  my  counsels,  and  I  am  too  old  to  aid  it  with  my  hands. 
Therefore"  (and  the  old  man's  eye  moistened  as  he  looked 
around  upon  the  expectant  group),  "I  am  going  back  to 
die  in  England." 

This  was  the  first  intimation  they  had  had  of  this  deter- 


THE     BAY     PATH.  387 

mination,  and  they  looked  at  one  another  in  blank  astonish 
ment.  Mary  Holyoke  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
Rising,  and  pushing  aside  the  reserve  that  advancing  years 
had  placed  between  her  father  and  herself,  she  was  the  girl 
Mary  Pynchon  once  more  ;  and,  throwing  herself  into  his 
ai'ins,  she  kissed  the  old  man  fervently,  and  exclaimed, "  If  you 
go  to  England,  I  shall  go  with  you — we  will  all  go  with  you." 

"  No,  no,  my  child,"  replied  the  old  man,  putting  his  arm 
affectionately  around  his  old-time  idol.  "  No,  no,  you  must 
stay  here.  If  you  are  going  to  leave  for  me,  I  shall  remain. 
This  is  the  place  for  you,  and  the  rest  of  my  children.  You 
do  not  write  books,  and  I  am  not  yet  done  with  Mr.  John 
Norton.  You  do  not  wish  me  to  remain,  and  be  subject  to 
the  annoyances  which  the  General  Court  are  determined  to 
visit  upon  me  ;  and  if  I  do  remain,  I  shall  certainly  give 
them  greater  cause  for  persecution  than  has  actuated  them 
thus  far.  I  have  but  a  few  more  years  to  live,  and,  while 
it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  me  to  have  my  children  aixnind 
me  in  my  last  hours,  I  will  never  consent  to  receive  the 
blessing  at  the  expense  of  their  usefulness  and  prosperity. 
You  have  all  a  future  before  you,  and  your  children  will 
come  into  a  noble  inheritance  when  you  are  gone." 

Mrs.  Pynchon,  while  these  remarks  were  in  progress,  was 
evidently  in  distress,  and  they  were  no  sooner  concluded 
than  she  took  the  opportunity  to  say  that  she  knew  Mr. 
Pynchon  had  been  treated  shamefully,  and  no  doubt  that  it 
would  be  uncomfortable  for  him  to  live  here.  She  did  not 
know  but,  if  a  person  was  prepared,  it  was  just  as  well  to 
die  away  from  one's  children  as  any  way.  It  was  very  un 
pleasant  to  live  where  one  wasn't  respected,  especially  if 
one  had  not  been  used  to  such  a  state  of  things ;  but  she 
did  think  that  before  a  decision  had  been  irrevocably  made 
to  return  to  England,  Mr.  Pynchon  ought  to  have  thought 
of  the  salt  water,  and  to  have  found  out  what  sort  of  a 
vessel  he  was  going  in.  Her  remarks,  for  some  reason  she 


388  THE     BAT     PATH. 

did  not  fully  appreciate,  did  not  materially  deepen  the 
solemnity  that  attended  their  opening,  and  so,  having  been 
heard,  she  subsided  to  her  knitting,  and  sailed  out  into  her 
placid  sea  of  thought,  on  a  woollen  vessel  with  steel  spars 
and  blue-mixed  cordage. 

Mary  Holyoke  still  sat  on  her  father's  knee,  but  she  was 
engaged  in  deep  thought,  and  when  her  mother  concluded, 
she  said,  very  emphatically,  "  Some  of  us  must  go  to  Eng 
land.  Father  and  mother  must  not  go  alone." 

The  matter  had  appeared  in  this  light  to  all,  yet  all  were 
equally  undecided  in  regard  to  what  was  individual  propri 
ety  and  duty  in  the  premises.  Henry  Smith,  who  had  said 
nothing  thus  far,  decided  the  question  at  last.  He  had  no 
doubt  that  it  was  the  duty  of  one  or  more  of  the  children 
to  return  with  their  parents,  and,  as  he  was  bound  to  them 
by  a  double  tie,  Mrs.  Pynchon  being  his  own  mother,  he 
believed  that  the  duty  was  pointed  out  to  him.  At  any 
rate,  he  should  so  consider  it  with  his  present  light. 

"  I  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  companionship  of  any  of 
my  children,"  said  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  a  grateful  suffusion 
of  the  eye,  "  but  it  will  be  very  pleasant ;  and,  while  it  will 
cost  me  a  great  struggle  to  leave  the  remainder  here,  and 
bid  them  good-bye,  never  more  probably  to  meet  them  in 
this  world,  I  cannot  but  confess  that  the  thought  of  being 
able  while  I  live  to  act  freely  in  matters  that  have  come  to 
make  up  so  much  of  my  life,  and  the  prospect  of  dying 
among  the  scenes  of  my  youth,  and  of  being  buried  among 
those  with  whom  are  connected  some  of  my  happiest  memo 
ries,  bring  to  me  many  pleasant  anticipations.  I  could 
almost  wish  that  the  farewells  had  been  said,  that  the  winds 
were  bearing  me  away  from  you,  and  that  those  I  must 
leave  behind  had  prosperously  recommenced  pursuits  with 
which  my  presence  can  only  interfere." 

A  long  conversation  ensued,  suggested  by  this  develop 
ment  in  the  history  of  the  plantation — a  development  which 


THE     BAY     PATH.  389 

all  could,  not  fail  to  see  was  to  inaugurate  a  new  era  in  their 
lives  and  affairs.  By  some  association  the  past  was  called  up, 
and  the  family  sat  for  a  long  hour  talking  of  the  people  and 
times  gone  by.  Among  the  topics  of  the  hour  was  the  sad 
case  of  Mary  Parsons,  of  which  there  were  so  many  things 
in  the  house,  in  the  history  of  the  family,  and  in  the  plan 
tation,  to  remind  them. 

To  relieve  the  distressing  details  of  her  last  days,  Mr. 
Pynchon,  under  pledge  of  secresy,  told  his  family  of  his  dis 
covery  of  John  Woodcock,  of  his  long  residence  near  them 
among  the  Indians,  of  his  charities  to  Mary  and  Hugh  dur 
ing  the  sickness  of  the  former,  of  the  authorship  of  Mr. 
Moxon's  bark  manuscripts,  and  so  described  him  that  all 
declared  that  they  had  seen  him  repeatedly,  and  called  up  a 
multitude  of  occurrences  to  which  his  presence  among  the 
Indians  furnished  the  key. 

All  were  very  deeply  interested  in  the  narrative,  and 
were  astonished  when  informed  by  Mr.  Pynchon  that  he 
had,  during  the  comparatively  brief  interview  that  he  held 
with  Woodcock  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  from  the 
Bay,  not  only  learned  the  particulars  he  had  communicated 
to  them,  but  had  informed  Woodcock  of  his  determination 
to  return  to  England,  and  received  from  Woodcock  the  as 
surance  that  he  would  gladly  return  with  him.  The  family 
had  always  known  the  sympathy  that  existed  between  Mr. 
Pynchon  and  Woodcock — two  individuals  as  widely  diverse 
in  their  character,  apparently,  -as  could  be  imagined — but 
now  that  they  more  fully  comprehended  the  character  of 
both,  they  were  less  at  a  loss  in  accounting  for  the  pleasant 
anticipation  that  lighted  up  the  old  man's  eye,  as  he  spoke  of 
having  Woodcock  near  him  in  his  last  years;  of  recalling  with 
him,  in  their  distant  retirement,  the  details  of  the  wonderful 
episode  in  their  lives  furnished  by  their  residence  in  America ; 
of  listening  to  his  fresh  and  quaint  humors,  and  of  coming 
into  invigorating  contact  with  his  free  and  original  spirit. 


390  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  There  is  one  man,"  said  Holyoke,  in  a  very  decided 
voice,  "  who  I  wish  could  be  induced  to  leave  the  planta 
tion  when  you  do,  if  he  will  not  go  before,  and  the  wider 
the  sea  which  separates  him  from  us  the  better.  If  you  are 
going  to  leave,  I  beg  you  not  to  leave  behind  you  Mr. 
Moxon.  He  has  been  the  author  of  great  calamities 
amongst  us,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  his  position  once, 
he  can  now  do  us  no  good." 

The  others  spoke  less  boldly,  but  with  no  less  strength  of 
conviction,  in  the  same  behalf.  All  felt,  not  only  that  the 
day  but  the  capacity  for  usefulness  with  him  had  passed,  and 
that,  thereafter,  his  presence  in  the  plantation  must  be  an 
offence,  if  nothing  worse. 

Mr.  Pynchon  coincided  with  the  general  opinion,  and, 
moreover,  intimated  the  probability  that  Mr.  Moxon  would 
make  the  proposition  to  return  with  him,  without  a  request 
or  invitation  from  any  quarter. 

The  company  little  imagined  that,  at  the  very  moment 
when  they  were  talking  of  him,  Mr.  Moxon  was  passing 
through  another  of  those  trials  to  which  he  had  been  so 
frequently  subjected,  and  were  startled  by  a  loud  rap  at 
the  door,  and  a  general  summons  to  come  with  haste  to  the 
minister's  house.  The  messenger  only  knew  that  Martha 
Moxon  was  bewitched  by  somebody,  and  that  her  father 
was  anxious  that  every  one  should  sec  her. 

Mr.  Moxon  was  not  unaware  that  there  were  open  and 
secret  murmurings  in  regard  to  his  treatment  of  Mary  Par 
sons,  and  doubts  touching  the  soundness  of  his  reason.  He 
had,  therefore,  upon  the  renewal  of  the  attack  upon  his 
children,  determined  that  every  one  should  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  witness  the  scenes  which  had  made  such  an  im 
pression  upon  him,  and  by  that  means  to  vindicate  as  well 
his  opinions  as  his  proceedings. 

It  was  remarkable  to  see  the  air  of  deep  sadness  which 
pervaded  the  Pynchon  family  as  this  amiouncement  was 


THE     BAY     PATH.  391 

made  to  them.  "  Who,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  to  be  the  vic 
tim  now  ?'  exclaimed  Holyoke  impatiently. 

It  was  an  unpleasant  conclusion  to  a  most  interesting 
family  re-union,  and  as  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  left  the 
house  to  obey  the  summons  it  was  with  many  expressions 
of  perplexity  and  discouragement,  As  they  emerged  upon 
the  street  they  perceived  that  quite  an  excitement  was 
on  foot,  and  that  the  call  to  the  entertainment  to' which 
they  were  invited  had  been  very  general.  When  they  ar 
rived  at  the  minister's  house  they  found  it  already  full,  but 
room  was  made  for  them  ;  and,  advancing  to  the  bed  where 
Martha  lay,  they  found  the  minister  exhibiting  to  the  gaping 
crowd  one  of  her  limbs,  which  was  covered  with  black  and 
blue  spots,  inflicted,  as  he  assured  them,  by  her  invisible 
tormentor.  As  he  raised  his  head  and  recognised  the  new 
comers,  he  informed  them  that  his  daughter  had  just  reco 
vered  from  a  terrible  paroxysm,  and  had  made  an  accu 
sation  which  gave  him  as  much  pain  as  it  could  any  one 
present. 

As  he  was  speaking,  there  was  a  slight  stir  among  the 
crowd,  and  a  small  form  pressed  forward  to  get  a  view  of 
the  bewitched  girl.  He  had  no  sooner  worked  his  way 
to  her  bedside,  his  face  flushed  with  painful  excitement, 
than  she  sprang  up  with  frantic  energy,  and  pointing  to 
Hugh  Parsons  exclaimed,  "There  is  the  man  who  struck 
me — there  he  is!  there  he  is!  there  he  is!"  Saying  this, 
she  was  thrown  into  renewed  convulsions,  in  which  she  gave 
wild  screams  of  torment,  and  declared  alternately  that  he 
was  pounding  her  and  sticking  pins  into  her. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  Hugh,  who,  frightened  not 
only  by  the  wild  words  and  wilder  screams  of  the  girl,  but 
by  a  vision  of  the  dangers  to  Avhich  he  had  become  exposed 
by  her  accusation,  began  to  grow  dizzy  as  he  gazed ; — the 
room  swam  around  him,  and  he  sank  to  the  floor  in  a  swoon 
as  deep,  almost,  as  death. 


392  THE     BAY     PATH. 

"  My  God !"  exclaimed  Holyoke,  quite  overcome  by  the 
spectacle  ;  "  where  is  all  this  to  end  ?  " 

"  It  will  never  end  until  justice  shall  be  done,"  replied 
Mr.  Moxon,  in  an  excited  voice.  "  So  long  as  the  devil's 
agents  go  unpunished — so  long  as  they  evade  or  triumph 
over  law,  so  long  will  he  continue  his  torments.  He  will 
never  cease  until  those  who  call  themselves  the  children 
of  God  cease  to  assist  him  in  his  work,  by  accusing  his 
innocent  victims  of  deception,  and  their  distressed  friends 
of  insanity." 

As  Hugh  was  removed  from  the  room  into  the  open  air, 
Holyoke  followed  Avithout  uttering  a  word.  He  was  sick 
at  heart.  He  saw  before  him  another  dark  tragedy — in 
fact  a  brood  of  them,  for,  upon  the  faces  of  the  simple 
planters  who  were  assembled,  he  could  not  but  detect  the 
credulity — the  conviction — necessary  to  sustain,  by  tes 
timony,  the  charge  against  Hugh,  and  the  groundwork  of 
a  mental  epidemic  as  hostile  to  all  worldly  prosperity,  as  to 
intellectual  growth  and  spiritual  religion.  Directing  that 
Hugh  should  be  carried  to  his  own  house,  he  returned  with 
Mr.  Pynchon  for  his  wife  and  family. 

Thus  again,  and  for  the  most  deplorable  of  causes,  was 
the  plantation  in  commotion,  but  the  end  was  approaching, 
and  was  nearer  than  any  imagined.  . 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

THE  summer  which  followed  these  events  was  a  brief  and 
hurried  season.  So  many  things  had  occurred  to  divert 
the  planters  from  their  labor  that  little  time  was  left — for 
any  purpose — from  the  toils  of  the  forest  and  the  field. 
Mr.  Pynchon  was  busy  with  preparations  for  closing  his 
trade  or  turning  it  entirely  into  the  hands  of  his  son,  and 
arranging  the  preliminaries,  both  on  this  and  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  for  his  return  to  England. 

Mr.  Moxon  employed  himself,  during  the  time  he  could 
spare  from  his  poorly  performed  pastoral  duties,  in  looking 
after  evidence  against  Hugh,  upon  whom,  as  was  seen  in 
the  last  chapter,  the  mantle  of  witchcraft  had  fallen.  He 
was  determined  to  pursue  this  case  to  the  end,  and  leave 
no  means  untried  to  secure  conviction.  While  the  people 
of  the  plantation  could  not  help  regarding  Hugh  as  a  very 
harmless  individual,  their  mouths  were  stopped  in  his 
defence  by  what  they  had  seen,  and  he  seemed  to  be  in 
danger  of,  meeting  with  a  fate  as  lamentable  as  that  which 
had  befallen  his  wife. 

As  a  community,  the  people  of  the  town  were  more 
united  in  their  feelings  than  they  had  ever  been,  and  Mr. 
Pynchon  had  the  satisfaction,  during  the  last  months  which 
he  spent  upon  the  plantation,  of  being  the  centre  of  devoted 
sympathy  and  attachment,  as  well  to  those  who  had  once 
been  at  difference  with  him,  as  to  his  long-time  friends. 
Everybody  saw,  through  the  bland  judiciousness  of  Deacon 
Chapin,  a  decided  sympathy  with  Mr.  Pynchon.  By  what 
perverse  principle  in  human  nature  a  heretic  shorn  of 
temporal  power  becomes  heroic  to  the  imagination;  how 

17* 


394  THE     BAY     PATH. 

persecution  makes  converts  where  reason  fails;  why  op 
position  to  a  principle  often  dies  when  its  defender  is 
stricken  down,  are  questions  not  readily  answered  ;  and  yet 
it  was  true  that  Deacon  Chapin  no  sooner  saw  Mr.  Pynchon 
politically  powerless — yet  .falling  with  dignity  back  upon 
his  manhood — than  he  became  one  of  the  best  friends  he 
had.  Whether,  if  his  power  had  been  restored,  and  his 
old  standing  regained,  this  new  affection  would  have  been 
constant,  Deacon  Chapin  himself  probably  did  not  know. 
Few  appreciate,  or  even  examine,  the  influences  which 
direct  or  divert  the  currents  of  their  lives. 

As  the  autumn  came  on,  the  time  approached  for  Henry 
Smith  to  depart  for  the  Bay,  to  attend  upon  the  October 
session  of  the  General  Court ;  and  as  he  was,  at  that  time, 
the  only  magistrate  in  the  settlement,  Peter  Trimble  saw 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  become  the  husband 
of  the  widow  Tomson  before  winter,  if  he  did  not  avail 
himself  of  Mr.  Smith's  services  previous  to  his  departure. 
Having,  therefore,  secured  his  legal  publishment,  he  called 
upon  the  new  magistrate  one  evening  to  engage  him  to 
perform,  for  the  first  time  in  his  experience,  the  interesting 
and  important  ceremony.  Informing  the  gentleman  that  he 
would  like  to  see  him  out  of  doors,  he  proposed,  in  a 
manner  not  wholly  free  from  embarrassment,  though 
sufficiently  charged  with  a  sense  of  self-importance,  the 
buisness  upon  which  he  had  called. 

"  So  you  are  really  going  to  be  married,  Peter,"  said  Mr. 
Smith,  in  his  grave  but  not  unpleasant  way. 

"  Well,"  responded  Peter,  "  I  might  as  well,  I  reckon,  if 
I'm  ever  going  to  be,  for  you  see  Esther  may  change  her 
mind,  and  I've  been  to  work  on  her  land  all  summer,  and 
I've  no  notion  of  losing  that." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  magistrate.  "I  shall  be  happy 
to  marry  you  at  any  time  you  may  appoint,  before  I  leave 
for  the  Bay." 


THE     BAY     PATH.  395 

* 

Peter's  business  was  really  completed,  but  he  lingered  still, 
and,  finally,  as  the  magistrate  turned  to  walk  into  his  house, 
he  mustered  sufficient  resolution  to  ask  him  what  the  fee 
would  be. 

"  Oh  !  anything  you  choose,"  replied  Mr.  Smith, '  step 
ping  into  the  house,  and  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Peter  did  not  stir  from  where  he  stood,  for  several 
minutes.  An  idea  had  entered  his  mind  of  so  novel 
and  important  a  character  that  walking  could  only  have 
diverted  his  attention  from  its  consideration.  Having 
viewed  it  in  its  various  aspects,  he  manifested  his  satis 
faction  with  it  by  shaking  his  fists  violently  at  the  door 
beyond  which  the  magistrate  had  disappeared.  Judging 
by  the  expression  upon  Peter's  face,  Mr.  Smith  was  not 
menaced  with  any  fearful  calamity,  but  simply  with  some 
choice  bit  of  over-reaching  which  filled  the  man  who  had 
conceived  it  with  unmixed  delight.  Taking  his  way  hur 
riedly  back  to  the  widow's  cabin,  he  entered,  and,  hanging 
his  hat  upon  the  accustomed  nail,  sat  down  on  a  low  bench, 
and,  in  his  old  attitude,  with  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  his.  hands  between  his  knees,  surrendered  himself  to 
those  half  stifled  ebullitions  of  laughter  of  which  he  was 
the  victim. 

"  What  have  you  got  hold  of  now  ? "  inquired  the  ad 
miring  widow,  pausing  in  her  work. 

"  Got  hold  of  my  head,"  responded  Peter,  with  a  rea 
diness  of  wit  which  astonished  himself,  and  threw  him  into 
renewed  convulsions. 

"  Well,  that  ain't  anything  very  great,  I'm  sure,"  retorted 
the  widow,  entirely  unconscious  that  she  had  the  best  of 
the  joke. 

Peter,  however,  was  more  appreciative.  Struck  with  the 
peculiar  force  of  the  retort,  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  and, 
grasping  the  woman  cordially  by  the  hand,  exclaimed,  "  By 
George !  Esther,  you  are  up  to  pretty  much  everything, 


396  THE     BAY     PATH. 

ain't  you  ?  Land  ahead !  I've  got  to  look  out ;  I  ain't 
nowhere." 

The  mew  admiration  on  the  part  of  Peter,  and  the  glow 
excited  in  the  heart  of  the  widow  by  the  compliment  she 
had  received,  had  a  very  pleasant  effect  upon  the  con 
fidential  conversation  which  followed.  In  this  conversation, 
Peter  made  a  revelation  of  the  new  idea  which  had 
occurred  to  him,  and,  although  it  did  not  strike  his  com 
panion  with  such  force  as  he  had  expected,  and  as  she  felt 
that  it  ought  to  strike  a  woman  of  her  recently  achieved 
reputation  for  acuteness,  she  acquiesced  in  its  practicability. 

The  evening  for  the  marriage  was  at  last  fixed  upon,  and 
Peter  invited  a  few  of  his  choice  friends  to  meet  him  at  the 
magistrate's  upon  the  occasion.  The  night  upon  which  the 
wedding  was  to  take  place  became  generally  known,  and 
when  Peter,  with  his  betrothed  hanging  upon  his  arm,  and 
the  oldest  of  her  resident  children  pulling  at  the  opposite 
hand,  arrived  at  Mr.  Smith's  house,  he  was  surprised  to  find 
it  literally  full.  The  discovery  abashed  him ;  and,  from  the 
merry  countenances  of  those  he  met,  he  became  distressed 
with  an  apprehension  that  he  was  to  be  made  the  butt  of  ridi 
cule.  This  was  quickly  relieved,  however,  by  the  polite 
attentions  he  received  on  every  hand,  and  the  efforts  made 
by  every  one  to  place  him  at  his  ease,  and  restore  to  him 
his  self-confidence.  In  fact,  Mr.  Smith  was  quite  as  much 
an  object  of  curiosity  as  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride.  He 
had  been  rallied  for  a  week  on  his  new  dignity,  and  ex 
horted  to  have  the  ceremony  well  committed  to  memory  ; 
and  when  the  moment  came  for  him  to  commence  the  duties 
of  his  office,  his  face  was  flushed  and  his  voice  tremulous, 
while  Peter  and  his  simple  bride  were  models  of  self-pos 
session. 

As  soon  as  Peter  and  Esther  had  been  pronounced  hus 
band  and  wife,  they  received  the  hearty  congratulations  of 
all  present,  many  of  whom  turned,  and  jocosely  congratu 


THE     BAY     PATH.  397 

latad  the  new  magistrate  on  the  happy  achievement  of  the 
most  grateful  and  graceful  honors  of  his  office. 

"  That  is  your  child,  is  it,  Peter  ?"  remarked  one  of  his 
acquaintances,  who  was  shaking  his  bony  hand. 

"  Perhaps  'tis,  one  way,  now,"  replied  Peter,  "  but  it 
won't  be  a  great  while." 

"  Have  you  found  a  place  for  it?"  inquired  his  friend,  for 
the  efforts  Peter  had  made  to  gfl  rid  of  the  children  were 
notorious. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  you'll  find  out  before  you  go  home," 
replied  the  bridegroom,  with  a  wink.  Then,  turning  to 
Esther,  he  remarked,  "  I  •  guess  now  would  be  as  good  a 
time  as  any,  wouldn't  it." 

The  bride  having  signified  her  assent,  and  bestowed  some 
attentions  upon  her  child  which  involved  the  use  of  a  hand 
kerchief,  Peter  stooped,  and,  taking  the  little  one  in  hig 
arms,  advanced  to  Mr.  Smith — grinning  and  snickering  all 
the  way — and  said,  "  I  believe,  Square,  you  told  me  I  might 
give  you  anything  I  was  a-raind  to  for  marrying  me,  and 
so  I  fetched  down  this  young  one ;  and  if  you'll  hold  open 
your  arms  I'll  put  her  into  them." 

At  least  half-a-dozen  individuals  heard  every  word  of  the 
speech  of  presentation,  and,  as  Peter  suited  his  action  to  his 
words,  and  placed  the  child  so  far  in  the  magistrate's  arms 
that  he  was  obliged  to  grasp  it,  to  keep  it  from  falling,  the 
laugh  that  was  excited  at  his  expense  was  irresistible. 

As  the  story  spread  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  wedded 
pair  found  themselves  suddenly  forgotten  in  the  general 
anxiety  to  get  a  sight  of  the  magistrate's  fee,  and  congratu 
late  him  upon  its  beauty  and  value.  The  fee  itself,  though 
of  a  not  remarkably  timid  character,  became  very  much 
alarmed  at  finding  itself  in  the  arms  of  a  man  whom  it  had 
been  taught  to  regard  as  one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  town  ; 
and,  annoyed  by  the  boisterous  laughter  that  was  resound 
ing  in  every  direction  among  the  closely  crowding  company, 


398  THE     BAY     PATH. 

it  achieved  its  liberty  by  two  or  three  vigorous  kicks,  and 
dodging  among  the  intervening  legs,  found  its  way  back  to 
the  side  of  its  mother,  whom  it  clasped  in  a  most  awkward 
manner,  and  whom  it  distressed  by  a  yell  so  obstreperous 
that  it  would  have  drowned  all  the  tumult  of  the  room,  if 
it  had  not  tended  most  decidedly  to  increase  it. 

"  I  wish  we'd  went  out  jest  as  quick  as  'twas  done,"  re 
marked  Peter  to  his  wife^horoughly  vexed  with  the  child, 
and  apprehensive  that  the  manoeuvre  was  a  failure. 

Before  the  wife  could  reply,  the  magistrate  approached, 
and  assured  Peter,  in  a  spirit  of  merriment  that  was  very 
unusual  with  him,  that  the  fee  was  too  large,  and  being  of 
a  character  so  similar  to  an  article  with  which  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  abundantly  supplied,  he  must  positively 
decline  its  reception.  That  settled  the  matter,  and  Peter 
mentally  resolved  upon  the  spot,  that  he  had  made  his  last 
effort  to  reduce  the  size  of  his  family.  In  a  state  of  mingled 
joy  and  disappointment,  he  soon  afterwards  announced  his 
determination  to  retire,  but  the  company  interfered  in  a 
good-natured  way,  and  some  plain  refreshments  were  served 
in  honor  of  the  event.  When  at  last,  in  compliance  with 
the  request  of  his  wife,  who  was  afraid  the  children  at  home 
might  be  fretting,  Peter  prepared  to  take  leave  of  the  ma 
gistrate  and  the  party,  he  found  his  child  asleep  in  the  corner ; 
and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  departed,  followed  by  the 
smiling  Mrs.  Trimble.  Both  were  glad  to  be  out  of  the 
house,  and  were  heartily  rejoiced  when  they  found  them 
selves  quietly  seated  before  a  brisk  little  fire  in  their  own 
cabin. 

"  Well,  by  George !  Esther,"  said  Peter,  after  rubbing 
his  knees  and  looking  into  the  fire  for  a  while,  "  it  hain't 
cost  anything,  has  it  ?" 

Peter's  marriage  was  an  event  to  be  merry  over  in  the 
plantation,  but,  while  its  events  were  retailed  with  charm 
ing  exaggerations  from  house  to  house,  the  Pynchon  family 


THE     BAY     PATH.  399 

were  engaged  in  the  adjustment  of  the  important  affairs 
with  which  were  associated  their  future  prospects. 

Until  within  a  few  days  of  the  proposed  departure  of 
Henry  Smith  for  the  Bay,  he,  as  well  as  the  more  immedi 
ate  family  of  Mr.  Pynchon,  had  supposed  that  the  latter 
gentleman  would  accompany  him.  They  all  knew  that  the 
General  Court  had  enjoined  him  to  be  present  at  the  October 
session,  to  complete  the  satisfaction  he  had  commenced  in 
the  spring,  touching  his  alleged  heresies ;  but  he  had  long 
previously  determined  that  the  General  Court  had  received 
all  the  satisfaction  they  would  win  from  him  in  any  form. 

The  announcement  of  his  determination  to  his  family 
filled  them  with  uneasiness.  They  feared  the  result  of  thus 
tempting  the  relentless  persecution  of  those  who  held  the 
power  to  persecute,  and  made  some  attempts  to  dissuade 
him  from  his  purpose.  He  only  smiled  at  their  fears,  and, 
bidding  Henry  Smith  tell  the  court — if  inquiry  should  be 
made  for  him — that  it  was  inconvenient  for  him  to  be  pre 
sent,  and  that  he  could  give  them  no  satisfaction  were  it 
otherwise,  dismissed  his  son-in-law  and  the  subject  together. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  deputy  at  the  Bay,  inquiries  were 
immediately  made  of  him  concerning  Mr.  Pynchon,  and 
much  surprise  expressed  that  he  had  seen  fit  to  trample 
upon  the  orders  of  the  government.  On  the  return  of 
some  of  the  members  of  the  party  who  accompanied  Mr. 
Smith,  numerous  letters  were  sent  to  the  old  man — some 
of  them  from  real,  but  more  from  pretended  friends,  urging 
him — if  he  would  save  his  character  and  save  himself — to 
show  himself  to  the  General  Court  before  the  close  of  the 
session.  Mr.  Pynchon  read  the  letters,  laid  them  aside 
without  exhibiting  them  to  his  family,  and  as  he  had  no  op 
portunity  to  reply,  contented  himself  with  the  conviction 
that  he,  and  not  they,  judged  correctly  in  regard  to  what 
the  General  Court  would  dare  to  do  in  his  case. 

The  failure  of  the  venerable  heretic  to  appear  was  a  sub- 


400  THE     BAY     PATH. 

ject  of  excessive  annoyance  to  many  of  the  leading  mem- 
bers  of  the  General  Court.  They  were  vexed  at  being 
treated  with  contempt  by  a  man  whom  they  had  disabled  ; 
and  felt  that  they  had  over-reached  themselves,  in  not  ac 
cepting  Mr.  Pynchon's  own  terms  of  humiliation,  offered  in 
his  hour  of  distraction  and  weakness. 

After  the  court  had  been  in  session  a  few  days,  and  Mr. 
Smith  had  become  conversant  with  the  state  of  feeling 
which  prevailed,  he  asked  for  leave  of  absence  for  the 
remainder  of  the  session.  The  request  was  readily  granted, 
with  the  secret  hope  that  he  would  carry  to  Mr.  Pynchon 
such  a  story  as  would  convince  him  of  the  advisableness  of 
his  appearance  before  the  General  Court  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible. 

They  were  doomed,  however,  to  disappointment.  The 
session  was  lengthened  out  a  day  or  two,  in  the  vain  hope 
of  hearing  of  his  arrival,  but  they  found  at  last  that  all  they 
could  do  would  be  to  enjoin  him  to  appear  before  the  next 
General  Court,  and  to  attach  a  penalty  to  a  non-compliance 
with  the  requisition.* 

The  action  of  the  General  Court  was  not  seen  by  Mr. 

*  "This  Courtc  doth  judge  it  meete  &  is  willinge  that  all  patience  be 
exercised  towards  Mr.  Wm.  Pynchon,  that,  if  it  be  possible,  he  may  be 
reduced  into  the  "way  of  truth  <fe  that  he  may  renounce  the  errours  <fe  hie- 
resies  published  in  his  booke;  &  for  the  end  doe  give  him  time  to  the 
next  Generall  Courte  in  May,  more  thoroughly  to  consider  of  the  said 
errours  <fe  heresies  in  his  said  booke,  tk  well  to  weigh  the  judicious 
answer  of  Mr.  John  Norton  thereto;  and  that  he  may  give  full  satisfac 
tion  for  his  offence,  which  they  more  desire  than  to  proceede  to  so  great 
a  censure  as  his  offence  deserves,  in  case  he  should  not  give  good  satis 
faction  ;  the  Court  doth  therefore  order,  that  the  judgment  of  the  cause 
be  suspended  till  the  Generall  Courte  in  May  next,  <fe  that  Mr.  Wm.  Pyn 
chon  be  enjoyned  under  the  penalty  of  one  hundred  pounds,  to  make 
his  personal  appearance  at  &  before  the  next  Generall  Courte,  to  give 
a  full  answer  to  satisfaction  (if  it  may  be)  or  otherwise  to  stand  to  the 
judgment  &  censure  of  the  Courte." — Records  of  Massachusetts  vol.  IIL 
page  257. 


THE     BAY     PATH.  401 

Pynchon  until  some  months  after  it  was  taken  and  recorded. 
He  read  it  with  many  smiles,  and  with  a  pleasant  compli 
ment  to  its  excessive  kindness  and  toleration.  The  manner 
in  which  he  treated  this  new  order  may  be  judged  from  the 
fact  that  it  is  the  very  last  mention  of  the  case  to  be  found 
on  the  records  of  the  court. 

Thus  ended,  so  far  as  legal  measures  were  concerned,  the 
persecution  which  befell  one  of  the  noblest  men  and  truest 
Christians  in  the  Massachusetts  colony.  It  is  impossible  to 
learn  now  what  controlling  cause  operated  in  the  withdrawal 
of  legal  measures  against  him.  The  General  Court,  before 
which  he  had  been  ordered  to  appear,  may  have  been  of  a 
more  liberal  character  than  its  predecessor,  and  may  have 
dropped  the  case  from  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  end  sought. 
This  however  is  hardly  probable,  unless  there  had  been  a 
popular  reaction,  of  which  there  is  no  evidence.  The  real 
cause  was  probably  the  fact  that  he  had  determined  upon 
returning  to  England.  They  doubtless  neither  wished  him 
to  return,  nor  if  he  should  return,  to  make  his  case  notorious 
at  home. 

The  mind  sickens  on  recurring  once  more,  among  the 
closing  scenes  of  Mr.  Pynchon's  residence  in  the  colony,  to 
Mr.  Moxon  and  his  hallucinations.  It  would  gladly  leave 
him,  his  worn  and  emaciated  wife,  and  his  children — stunted 
in  body  and  mind,  so  that,  although  approaching  woman 
hood,  they  were  but  children  still — all  to  the  fate  which  alone 
could  be  their  legitimate  inheritance  ;  but  there  is  one  indi 
vidual  who,  through  his  personal  innocence  and  dependence, 
and  the  associations  of  his  later  life,  has  enlisted  the  sympa 
thies  of  the  reader,  and  is  still  beneath  the  ban  of  the  minis 
ter's  fatal  superstition.  Hugh  Parsons — his  wife  in  her 
grave — a  woman  whom  he  felt  more  and  more  to  have 
been  originally  intended  by  Heaven  to  be  his  good  angel — 
his  reputation  tarnished  by  his  association  with  her  name 
and  crime  itself,  the  subject  of  the  most  terrible  suspicions 


402  THE     BAY     PATH. 

possible  at  the  time  to  be  entertained,  was  a  blighted  man. 
Never  strong,  either  in  heart  or  hand,  his  great  calamities 
crushed  him.  He  felt  like  one  benumbed.  He  walked  like 
one  afraid.  He  looked  like  one  conscious  of  having  been 
forsaken  alike  by  God  and  man. 

Throughout  the  year  which  succeeded  the  death  of  his 
wife,  the  evidence  against  him  went  on  accumulating,  aided 
in  the  process  by  the  increasing  superstitiousness  of  the 
villagers.  By  some  strange  fatality,  every  movement  that 
he  made  seemed  to  involve  him  in  new  difficulties.  Suspi 
cious  circumstances  seemed  to  walk  with  him  like  com 
panions  wherever  he  went,  to  stand  at  his  side  whenever 
he  paused,  to  group  themselves  about  him  whenever  he 
talked,  re-echoing  all  his  utterances. 

At  length,  complaint  was  entered  against  him  as  a  wizard, 
and  he  was  arrested  and  taken  to  the  Bay,  to  be  tried  for 
his  life.  At  this  time,  the  state  of  feeling  in  the  plantation 
had  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  that  many  believed  that  Hugh 
had  been  in  the  practice  of  his  hellish  abominations  for 
months  before  the  death  of  his  wife,  and  that  the  minister's 
daughters  were  not  the  only  individuals  who  had  been  then* 
subjects.  He  was  brought  before  the  grand  jury,  and  in 
dicted,  and  then  before  a  trial  jury,  which,  by  an  unani 
mous  verdict,  found  him  guilty.  The  verdict  came  before 
the  magistrates  for  review,  who,  on  examination  of  the  evi 
dence  upon  which  it  was  based,  set  it  aside.  The  case  then 
came  legally  before  the  General  Court,  which  sustained  the 
view  taken  by  the  magistrates,  and  acquitted  him.* 

*  "  Whereas  Hugh  Parsons  of  Springfield  was  arrajned  and  trjed  at  a 
Court  of  Assistants,  held  at  Boston,  12  of  May,  1652,  for  not  having  the 
feare  of  God  before  his  ejes,  but  being  seduced  by  the  instigation  of  the 
divill,  in  March,  1651,  and  divers  tjmes  before  and  since,  at  Springfield, 
as  was  conceived,  had  familiar  and  wicked  converse  with  the  divill,  and 
hath  used  divers  divillish  practizes,  of  witchcrafts,  to  the  hurt  of  diverse 
persons  as  by  severall  witnesses  and  circumstances  appeared,  was  left  by 
the  grand  jury  for  further  trial  for  his  life. 


THBBAY     PATH.  403 

The  ruin  of  Hugh  could  not  have  been  more  complete 
had  the  verdict  of  the  jury  been  sustained,  and  the  sen 
tence  of  death  executed  upon  him.  He  returned  to  the 
plantation  broken  down  in  health  and  reputation — one 
more  victim  to  that  strangest  and  most  terrible  of  the  de 
lusions  with  which  God  has  permitted  man  to  deceive  him 
self.  But  the  issue  of  the  case  was  followed  by  a  healthy 
and  much  needed  reaction  in  the  sentiment  of  the  town. 
The  veil  was  lifted  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  been 
misled,  and  a  thousand  things  which,  hi  their  previous  men 
tal  condition,  had  appeared  mysterious,  were  explained,  un 
til,  heartily  ashatned  of  themselves,  and  indignant  that  their 
leader  in  spiritual  and  religious  affairs  should  have  drawn 
them  into  such  guilt  of  injustice  and  cruelty,  they  became 
open  in  their  complaints  against  him. 

Mr.  Moxon  was  discouraged.  He  was  thoroughly  griev 
ed,  not  only  in  consequence  of  the  fact  that  Hugh  had  es 
caped  from  the  punishment  which  he  fully  believed  was  his 
due,  but  because  the  people  had  turned  against  himself,  the 
only  individual,  besides  his  family,  whom  he  believed  to 
have  been  injuriously  and  unjustly  dealt  with.  He  felt  that 
he  could  no  longer  fight  with  Satan,  and  that  he  must  for 
sake  the  field  and  flee. 

In  looking  over  his  future,  and  thinking  of  the  departure 
of  Mr.  Pynchon  and  Henry  Smith — men  who,  from  the  first, 
had  be  .MI  his  friends — men  who  had  pitied  his  calamities 
and  exercised  charity  for  his  frailties — he  felt  that  none 
would  be  left  behind  who  would  trust  him  as  they  had  done. 

"  The  jury  of  trjalls  found  him  guilty.  The  magistrates  not  consent 
ing  to  the  verdict  of  the  jury  the  cawse  came  legally  to  the  Generall 
Courte.  The  Generall  Courte,  after  the  prisoner  was  called  to  the  barr 
for  trjall  of  his  life,  pervsing  and  considering  the  evidences  brought  in 
against  the  sajd  Hugh  Parsons,  accused  for  witchcraft,  they  judged  he 
was  not  legally  guilty  of  witchcrafte,  and  so  not  to  dye  by  lawe." — Re 
<  ords  of  Massachusetts,  Vol.  IV.  part  1,  page  96." 


404  THE     BAY     PATH. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  way  left  open  for  him  but  to  re 
turn  to  England,  with  his  old  friend  and  patron,  and  fill  out 
the  measure  of  his  life  among  the  scenes  of  his  youth  and 
early  manhood.  His  proposition  to  this  effect  was  received 
with  no  surprise  by  Mr.  Pynchon,  who  had  for  some  time 
seen  that  it  would  be  his  only  practicable  course  of  pro 
cedure  ;  while  it  was  received  by  the  town  with  a  degree  of 
relief  and  satisfaction  which  showed  how  their  discontent 
with  him  and  his  ministrations  had  become  confirmed. 

The  details  of  preparation  for  the  return  to  England  of 
these  three  men — Mr.  Pynchon,  Mr.  Smith,  and  Mr.  Moxon 
— do  not  require  a  recital.  It  was  upon  a  midsummer  morn 
ing  of  the  year  1652 — only  two  or  three  months  after  the 
issue  of  Hugh's  trial  for  witchcraft — that  all  the  members  of 
the  plantation  were  assembled  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Pynchon, 
the  majority  of  them  to  bid  him  and  his  companions  a 
final  farewell,  and  the  remainder  to  bear  them  company  on 
their  journey  to  the  Bay.  It  was  the  most  touching  scene 
that  the  people  had  ever  witnessed.  Mr.  Pynchon  addressed 
them  from  the  doorway  of  his  house  with  kind  words  of 
counsel,  with  the  warmest  terms  of  paternal  endearment, 
and  with  such  allusions  to  the  future  as  the  occasion  would 
very  naturally  suggest. 

At  the  close  of  his  brief  and  simple  address  all  pressed 
forward  to  give  his  hand  the  parting  grasp.  Some  of  the 
simple-hearted  villagers  wept  aloud.  Besides  the  members 
of  the  plantation,  a  large  number  of  Indians  were  present 
to  bid  adieu  to  their  friend.  They  pressed  around  or  stood 
apart  in  silence,  struck  with  a  tender  solemnity  which  im 
pressed  Mr.  Pynchon  quite  as  deeply  as  the  more  boisterous 
demonstrations  of  his  neighbors.  He  bade  them  farewell 
in  some  kind  words  to  their  chief,  distributed  to  them  a 
multitude  of  little  gifts  Avhich  he  had  prepared  for  them, 
and  conjured  them  to  live  in  peace,  as  they  had  thus  far 
done,  with  their  white  brothers. 


THE     BAY      PATH.  405 

The  entire  family  of  Mr.  Pynchon  bore  him  company  on 
his  journey  to  the  Bay,  but  they  did  not  form  one  half  of 
the  party.  Nearly  all  the  horses  of  the  plantation  were  put 
in  requisition  for  the  transportation  of  packs  and  passengers, 
and  the  cavalcade  was  the  most  imposing  which  had  ever 
passed  over  the  Bay  Path.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  on 
that  bright  summer  morning,  as  the  long  line  started  on  its 
passage  eastward ;  and  yet  it  was  as  solemn  as  a  funeral 
procession.  There  were  the  magistrate  and  his  aged  com 
panion,  Mr.  Moxon  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  Henry 
Smith  and  his  family,  Holyoke  and  Mary,  and  drivers  and 
friends  in  a  long  array. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  the  hill  upon  the  east — upon 
the  very  spot  where,  sixteen  years  before,  Mr.  Pynchon  and 
his  family  had  paused  to  look  down  into  the  valley  which 
was  to  be  their  future  home — upon  the  very  spot  where 
Mary  had  met  her  lover,  at  the  side  of  her  slaughtered  pet 
— the  -very  spot  where  they  stood  when  they  crowned  the 
northern  mountain  tops  with  the  names  they  bear  to-day — 
all  paused  by  a  common  impulse,  and  turned  the  heads  of 
their  horses  westward. 

This  was  the  most  affecting  moment  of  all.  A  throng 
of  the  tenderest  and  strongest  associations  crowded  upon 
every  mind,  warm  tears  sprang  into  nearly  every  eye,  and 
all  looked  and  lingered  for  whole  minutes,  without  a 
thought  of  the  journey  which  lay  before  them.  It  was  a 
moment  for  prayer.  Even  the  horses  seemed  to  lose  all 
impatience,  and  to  nibble  at  the  tender  foliage  within  their 
reach  delicately  and  without  disturbance.  Mr.  Moxon's 
head  was  bowed  upon  his  breast,  in  deep  bitterness  of 
spirit,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  catch  the  sentiment  which 
pervaded  the  others;  but  Mr.  Pynchon,  with  uncovered 
head,  his  silver  hair  shining  in  the  sunlight,  dropped  his 
bridle  rein,  and  stretching  both  hands  towards  the  valley, 
gave  utterance  to  his  emotions  and  his  aspirations  in  the 


406  THE     BAY     PATH. 

words  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving.  He  prayed  for  the 
community  he  was  leaving — for  their  safety  and  prosperity, 
for  the  natives  of  the  valley,  in  whom  he  had  always  enter 
tained  a  deep  interest,  and  for  all  who  might  be  directly  or 
indirectly  affected  by  the  change  which  was  then  in  pro 
gress  in  the  affairs  of  the  settlement.  He  committed  him 
self  and  his  companions  to  God,  and  thanked  his  Father  in 
Heaven  for  the  discipline — severe  as  it  had  been — through 
which  they  had  been  led.  As  the  "  Amen"  trembled  upon 
his  lips,  every  horse  seemed  to  turn  of  his  own  will  into  the 
path,  and  silently  resume  the  journey ;  while  tearful  eyes 
caught  their  last  look  of  a  valley  which  through  life  they 
recalled  as  the  scene  of  a  long  and  eventful  dream. 

Of  the  journey  to  the  Bay — the  multiplied  interviews 
with  friends  at  Boston  and  in  the  other  settlements,  the 
preparations  for  the  voyage,  the  return  of  alienated  friends 
of  Mr.  Pynchon  to  their  old  fidelity ;  of  the  tender  partings 
— partings  which,  in  some  instances,  were  like  the  sunder- 
ings  of  the  heart's  quickest  fibres,  the  embarkation,  the 
dropping  down  the  Bay  with  the  tide,  the  spreading  of 
the  vessel's  great  white  wings,  and  their  vanishment  in 
the  dusky  distance,  the  return  of  the  silent  and  sorrowful 
planters  homeward,  and  their  arrival  among  their  friends — 
the  particulars  do  not  call  for  a  rehearsal.  They  brought 
to  a  close,  as  the  devout  planters  fully  believed,  a  provi 
dential  dispensation,  for  the  purpose  of  making  way  for 
another,  which  should  be  longer  and  more  prosperous  ;  and 
as  the  man  upon  whom  they  had  so  long  relied  disappeared, 
they  felt  themselves  clothed  with  new  strength  and  a  new 
mission. 

On  the  vessel,  the  minister  and  his  family,  with  several 
others  of  the  party,  were  confined  to  their  cabins  during  the 
entire  voyage.  Mr.  Pynchon  was  less  affected  than  the 
others,  and  made  his  way  upon  deck  as  early  as  possible, 
and  there,  day  after  day,  spent  his  time  in  conversation 


THE     BAY     PATH.  407 

with  an  old  man,  dressed  in  a  sailor's  costume,  with  whom 
he  seemed  to  be  on  the  most  confidential  terms. 

There,  together  on  one  bark  fleeing  homeward,  were 
three  outlaws,  each  one  of  whom,  from  widely  varying 
causes,  had  found  himself  dissonant  with  the  spirit  of  the 
colony  to  such  an  extent  that  he  could  not  live  in  it.  Inde 
pendence  of  religious  opinion,  a  becoming  restiveness  under 
laws  unnecessarily  rigid,  and  a  practical  belief  in  gross  su 
perstition,  were  all  really,  and  most  decidedly,  at  war  with 
the  spirit  of  the  colony  at  that  time.  They  could  not  live 
in  it,  and  so  returned  to  the  place  from  whence  they  came 
out. 

In  his  conversations  with  Mr.  Pynchon  upon  the  vessel, 
Woodcock  (for  the  reader  will  have  recognised  him  in  his 
sailor's  dress)  settled  the  plans  for  his  future  life.  He  had 
promised  his  friend  that  he  would  neither  make  himself 
known  to  Mr.  Moxon,  nor  take  any  measures  to  revenge 
the  injuries  he  had  received  upon  the  deluded  minister ; 
and  that  he  would  remain  near  Mr.  Pynchon,  and  in  his 
employment,  while  they  should  be  spared  alive. 

Mr.  Moxou,  on  his  arrival  in  England,  made  an  endeavor 
to  throw  off  the  cloud  which  rested  upon  him,  but  he  found 
it  all  in  vain.  He  was  mentally  a  wreck,  and  both  he  and 
his  family  were  soon  lost  sight  of,  to  all  his  old  acquaint 
ances.  Previous  to  his  disappearance,  he  had  been  silenced 
as  a  preacher,  and  doubtless  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life 
in  inferior,  if  not  menial  employments.* 

Mr.  Pynchon  and  his  family,  which  embraced  that  of 
Henry  Smith,  settled  down  at  Wraisbury,  in  Buckingham- 

*  "There  is  a  tradition  that  he"  (Mr.  Moxon)  "was  silenced  after  ho 
returned  to  England,  and  died  in  great  obscurity,  and  as  a  common  ser 
vant." 

Historical  Sermon  by  Rev.  Wm.  B.  Sprague,  D.D. 
"He"  (Mr.  Moxon)  "died,  very  poor,  out  of  the  ministry.  Sept.  15, 1687." 

Bliss's  Historical  Address. 


408  THE     BAY     PATH. 

shire,  a  small  place  on  the  Thames,  where  he  spent  the  re 
mainder  of  his  days  in  the  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  those 
pursuits  which  had  become  so  pleasant  to  him.  It  was 
there,  within  sight  of  the  river  which  washed  the  shore  of 
his  garden,  that,  he  dreamed  of  the  past,  and  recalled  the 
beautiful  Connecticut,  with  all  its  interesting  associations. 
It  was  there  that  he  spent  many  a  day  in  conversation  with 
Woodcock,  upon  the  trials  of  the  past,  the  duties  of  the 
present,  and  the  interests  of  the  future.  It  was  there  that 
he  had  the  deep  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  old  man — deemed 
reprobate  by  his  former  acquaintances — becoming  meek, 
and  tractable,  and  penitent.  It  was  there  that  he.  endea 
vored,  in  a  book  still  extant  in  the  Harvard  College  Library, 
"  to  clear  several  scriptures  of  the  greatest  note  in  these 
controversies,  from  Mr.  Norton's  corrupt  exposition,"  and 
there  that  he  regained  full  command  of  his  own  reason, 
and  reiterated  the  opinions  which,  under  a  terrible  pressure, 
he  had  mistakenly  recalled.  It  was  there,  in  the  last  years 
of  his  life,  that  he  wrote  other  theological  books  and  tracts, 
and  sent  out  around  him  a  healthy  and  vigorous  religious 
influence.  It  was  there  that  the  infirmities  of  age  crept 
silently  upon  him ;  there  that  at  last,  crowned  with  years 
and  venerated  by  all  who  knew  him,  he  sank  to  rest  in  the 
blessed  hope  of  joyful  resurrection  ;  and  it  is  there  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  centuries,  still  sleeps  his  most 
honorable  dust. 

Mr.  Pynchon's  wife  did  not  long  survive  him.  Simple- 
hearted,  honest  in  her  piety,  venerating  her  husband  while 
he  lived,  and  cherishing  his  memory  as  her  most  precious 
treasure  after  he  was  gone,  her  last  days  Avere  peaceful  and 
serene. 

Woodcock  survived  his  old  friend  for  many  years,  and, 
in  his  altered  spirit,  became  a  favorite  with  all  who  knew 
him.  Many  a  wise  and  learned  man  called  at  his  cottage, 
to  listen  to  the  recital  of  his  experiences  in  America,  the 


THE     BAY      PATH.  409 

quaint  views  of  society  and  the  leading  questions  of  the 
time  Avhich  he  put  forth,  and  especially  to  hear  him  talk 
upon  religion.  This  subject  became  the  leading  one  of  his 
mind  during  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  it  was  one  upon 
which  he  brought  his  strong  and  unwarped  common  sense 
to  bear  with  remarkable  power.  He  was  contented  and 
happy.  He  believed  that  God  had  done  all  things  well, 
and  hoped  and  expected  to  meet  the  wife  and  daughter  of 
his  youth  in  Heaven.  He  died  a  very  old  man,  falling 
asleep  in  confidence  and  trust ;  and  those  who  bore  him  to 
his  burial-place,  and  covered  the  earth  upon  him,  interred 
a  heart  which  could  count  as  many  pulses  true  to  manliness 
•as  any  that  had  throbbed  in  that  century. 

Henry  Smith  and  his  family  lived  thi-ough  the  remainder 
of  their  days  and  died  in  England.  They  were  a  sober, 
godly  family  of  the  Puritan  stamp,  and  maintained  a  stand 
ing  of  high  respectability.  But  he  and  his  became  dust  in 
their  appointed  time,  and  all  those  who  parted  on  the  shore 
of  the  ocean  years  before,  have  since  met  on  the  bank  of  a 
river  that  has  crossed  the  path  heavenward  of  all  the  gene 
rations  of  men. 

18 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

THE  plantation  had  passed  through  a  long  convulsion ;  the 
crisis  had  arrived  and  passed;  a  healthy  calm  succeeded. 
No  rumors  of  witchcraft  filled  the  neighborhood  with  blast 
ing  slanders  and  deadly  suspicions. 

After  the  General  Court  and  the  people  of  the  colony 
had  become  thoroughly  aware  that  Mr.  Pynchon  had 
virtually  been  banished  from  the  country,  they  began  to 
realize  that  there  had  been  a  great  wrong  done.  They 
began  to  feel  that  the  settlement  of  Springfield  had  good 
cause  for  dissatisfaction ;  and  a  reaction  took  place  which 
delighted  in  an  opportunity  to  show  honor  to  the  family  of 
the  prescribed  bookmaker.  John  Pynchon,  Elizur  Holyoke, 
and  Samuel  Chapin,  in  the  order  in  which  their  names  are 
here  recited,  were  appointed  a  board  of  magistracy,  with  a 
commission  precisely  like  the  one  granted  the  previous  year 
to  Henry  Smith.  This  commission  was  held  by  renewal  for 
many  years,  and  acting  under  it,  these  three  men  became 
an  important  and  most  respectable  legal  tribunal — the  first 
in  the  western  part  of  the  colony  which  assumed  the  dig 
nity  of  a  court. 

Its  inauguration  was  the  opening  of  a  new  volume  of 
life  and  affairs  to  the  plantation,  and  properly  belongs  to 
another  drama.  John  Pynchon,  its  head,  became  the 
foremost  man  in  the  Connecticut  valley.  There  is  hardly  a 
deed  of  land  from  the  Indians,  in  the  Connecticut  valley, 
in  which  his  name  is  not  mentioned.  He  was  the  leader 
in  trade  as  well  as  in  public  and  military  affairs.  His 
excellent  wife,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Gov.  Willis  of 


THE     BAY     PATH.  411 

Hartibrd,  bore  him  a  large  family  of  children ;  and,  full 
of  years  and  honors,  and  known  everywhere  as  the  "  Wor 
shipful  Major  Pynchon,"  he  lived  to  see  the  dawn  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  he  fell  asleep.  He  lived  to  see 
the  banks  of  the  Connecticut  settled  throughout  the  width 
of  the  Massachusetts  patent,  to  pass  through  the  terrible 
scenes  of  King  Philip's  War,  and  suffer  more  than  any 
other  man  by  its  reverses,  and  to  become  assured  of  the 
expansion  of  the  colonial  germs,  planted  here  and  there,  into 
a  mighty  empire. 

Holyoke  was  honored  during  a  long  life  with  the  con 
fidence  of  the  town  and  the  colonial  government.  He 
was  blessed  with  brave  and  beautiful  children,  worthy  alike 
of  him  and  the  noble  and  beautiful  mother  who  bore  them. 

Deacon  Samuel  Chapin  lived  a  long  and  useful  life.  He 
was  a  diligent,  persevering,  reliable  man — a  faithful  public 
servant,  and  an  invaluable  man  in  the  church.  He  was 
blessed  with  a  large  family  of  children,  and  they  were  all 
boys ;  and  they  had  large  families  of  children  who  were  ah1 
boys,  who,  in  turn,  had  large  families  of  boys.  The  con 
sequence  was  that  Springfield  became  filled  with  good 
people  bearing  that  name,  and  the  name  was  spread  all 
over  New  England,  so  that,  at  this  day,  there  are  many 
thousands  who  bear  the  blood  and  the  name  of  Deacon 
Samuel  Chapin. 

On  the  departure  of  Mr.  Moxon,  the  town  was  deprived 
of  the  ordinances  of  religion,  but  there  was  a  general 
determination  that  no  minister  should  be  called  until  one 
could  be  fixed  upon  who  would  fill  the  place  honorably  for 
God  and  himself,  and  profitably  for  the  people.  At  length, 
their  many  prayers  for  a  man  who  should  be  after  God's 
own  heart  were  answered,  and  their  long  and  patient  efforts 
crowned  with  success.  The  Reverend  Pelatiah  Glover 
of  Dorchester  c'ame  among  them,  a  young  man,  crowned 
with  the  graces  of  his  blessed  Master,  and  walking  in  the 


412  THE     BAY     PATH. 

light  of  God's  countenance.  He  went  in  and  out  before 
them,  and  broke  to  them  the  bread  of  life  for  thirty  years, 
arid  then,  in  the  precious  words  of  a  record  that  dared  to 
speak  in  Christian  language,  the  Reverend  Pelatiah  Glover 
"  fell  asleep  in  Jesus."  He  made  his  oflice  honorable,  and 
rescued  its  fame  from  the  terrible  delusions  with  which  his 
superstitious  predecessor  had  associated  it. 

The  Bay  Path  became  better  marked,  from  year  to  year, 
as  settlements  began  to  string  themselves  upon  it,  as  upon  a 
thread.  Every  year  the  footsteps  of  those  who  trod  it 
hurried  more  and  more,  until,  at  last,  wheels  began  to 
be  heard  upon  it — heavy  carts,  creaking  with  merchandise. 
Spots  of  the  forest  which  it  divided  were  cleared,  and 
as  the  settlements  upon  the  Connecticut  were  multiplied — 
as  the  white  men  gathered  in  plantations  at  Woronoco, 
Nonotuck,  Pocomtuck,  and  Squakeag — they  went  more 
rapidly  and  more  frequently  to  the  Bay. 

A  century  passed  away,  and  the  wilderness  had  retired. 
There  was  a  constant  roll  along  the  Bay  Path.  It  had 
grown  and  was  still  growing  into  a  great  thoroughfare. 
The  finest  of  the  wheat  and  the  fattest  of  the  flocks  and 
herds  were  transported  to  the  Bay,  whose  young  commerce 
had  already  begun  to  whiten  the  coast,  and  to  stretch  off 
upon  broader  enterprises  in  competition  with  the  staunch 
old  bottoms  of  the  mother  land ;  and  whose  commodities 
came  rumbling  back  in  prosperous  exchange. 

The  dreamy  years  passed  by,  and  then  came  the  furious 
stage  coach,  travelling  night  and  day — splashing  the  mud, 
brushing  up  the  dust,  dashing  up  to  inns,  and  curving  more 
slowly  up  to  post-offices.  The  journey  was  reduced  to  a 
day.  And  then — miracle  of  miracles — came  the  railway 
and  the  locomotive.  The  journey  of  a  day  is  reduced 
to  three  hours.  Where  the  traveller  toiled  over  swamps 
and  through  thickets,  and  slept  under  the  canopy  of  the 
trees,  disturbed  all  night  by  the  howls  of  savage  beasts,  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  413 

train  flashes  and  thunders  by,  bearing  a  thousand  happy 
hearts,  travelling  for  pastime,  or  bound  upon  errands  of 
business  or  friendship. 

How  fared  Peter  Trimble  amid  the  changes  of  the  suc 
ceeding  years  ?  In  the  first  place,  his  pimples  disappeared. 
Nobody  knew  where  they  went.  It  was  only  known  that 
they  had  been,  and  were  not.  As  the  sun  of  his  married 
life  a*rose,  they  vanished  and  very  probably  exhaled.  At 
any  rate,  they  went  away  never  to  return  ;  and  Peter 
became  a  long,  lank,  feeble  man,  more  or  less  given  in  his 
later  years  to  rheumatism,  which  he  attributed  to  getting 
up  so  much  nights  to  look  after  the  children.  The  Tomson 
children  he  found  of  vast  service  to  him,  when  he  came  to 
have  a  family  of  his  own,  for  he,  like  his  deceased  predeces 
sor,  was  abundantly  blessed  with  offspring ;  and  he  did  not 
regret  on  the  whole,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  rid 
of  them.  Labor  upon  the  farm  became  at  last  too  severe 
for  him,  and  he  took  to  coopering,  doing  the  most  of  his  work 
in  the  house,  and  thus  assisting  Esther  in  taking  care  of  the 
family,  occasionally  drowning  their  noise  with  his  adze,  and 
always  furnishing  them  with  shavings  to  play  with.  He 
preserved  until  his  dying  day  his  superiority  as  a  cutter  of 
hair  and  a  sharpener  of  razors,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
life,  consented  to  receive  a  small  fee  for  his  services  in  those 
fields  of  effort. 

And  the  widow  Tomson  made  him  an  exceUent  wife,  and 
was  quite  equal  in  every  respect  to  his  deserts.  She  might 
have  been  more  elegant  and  refined,  keener  of  intellect  and 
more  profound  and  thorough  in  culture,  but  she  would  have 
been  but  little  more  highly  appreciated  by  him  in  conse 
quence,  and  could  not  have  changed  her  relations  to  him, 
in  the  matter  of  sensitiveness  and  intelligence,  without  a 
great  loss  of  personal  comfort,  and  the  necessity  of  obtaining 
and  losing  a  modicum  of  self-respect.  That  the  pair  were 
very  poor  need  not  be  written ;  but  if,  after  their  frugaJ 


414  THE     BAT     PATH. 

supper  at  night,  the  reader  could  have  seen  Peter  making 
rabbits  on  the  wall  in  a  kind  of  animated  fresco  for  the 
amusement  of  the  children,  or  giving  the  youngest  one  an 
imaginary  ride  to  Boston  on  his  foot,  cantering  feebly  away 
in  the  stimulus  of  Esther's  voice,  he  would  not  have  thought 

'  O 

them  unhappy.  But  Peter  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time 
away  from  home,  and  he  enjoyed  it,  and  made  it  profitable 
in  snaring  partridges,  and  catching  beaver,  and  hooking 
various  fish,  and  gathering  sundry  medicinal  herbs.  Esther 
did  not  complain. 

Hugh  Parsons  carried  with  him  a  lifelong  sorrow  and  a 
lifelong  humiliation.  Mild  and  inoffensive,  he  was  beloved 
and  treated  by  the  majority  of  those  Avho  knew  him  with 
such  attentions  as  only  the  unfortunate  receive — some  of 
them  so  kind  that  they  started  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  all 
of  them  so  marked  that  they  could  not  but  remind  him  that 
others  remembered  as  well  as  he. 

But  there  is  one  character — the  most  lovely  that  has 
found  its  place  in  the  narrative — which  still  remains  to  give 
the  reader  a  parting  smile,  and  yet  she  parted  from  the 
others  early.  The  stone,  if  the  reader  have  patience,  shall 
tell  her  beautiful  story. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut,  close  down  where  the 
bending  turf  hangs  its  ear  over  the  rippling  wavelets  that 
kiss  the  beach,  and  murmur  and  whisper  to  it  night  and 
day,  the  first  grave  in  the  plantation  of  Agawam  was  made. 
There  swelled  the  first  mound  over  a  white  man's  breast, 
and  there,  one  by  one,  as  the  years  rolled  away,  rose  other 
mounds.  The  rank  grass  waved  over  them,  the  night-stray 
ing  cow  stumbled  among  them,  and  unseemly  shrubs 
sprouted  between  them,  and,  at  long  intervals,  were  cut 
away.  There,  one  after  another,  those  whose  life  has  in 
formed  these  pages  were  gathered,  and  there  the  brown 
sandstone,  roughly  finished,  and  quaintly  carved,  and  clum 
sily  inscribed,  was  placed  above  their  heads.  Years  and 


THE     BAY     PATH.  415 

scores  of  years  flew  by,  the  heaps  multiplying  on  every 
hand,  from  period  to  period,  till  the  yard  seemed  full,  yet 
it  ever  took  in  more.  There  they  lay  when  the  wintry 
blast  \vas  driving,  and  when  the  summer  sun  was  shining  ; 
when  the  ti'ees  were  shedding  the  purple  of  autumn,  and 
assuming  the  green  of  spring ;  when  the  ice,  a  lid  of  crystal, 
lay  over  the  waters  of  the  river,  and  when  those  waters 
laughed  in  the  breeze  and  the  sunlight,  or.  swayed  and 
staggered  with  the  weight  of  the  stars  upon  their  bosom. 
There  they  lay — the  silent  settlement  of  Agawam.  Some 
fell  by  the  red  man's  arm,  and  were  borne  thither  in  fear, 
and  buried  in  the  presence  of  faithful  muskets  and  threats 
of  vengeance.  Some  were  borne  there  in  old  age — an  old 
age  that  died  in  fear  after  a  life  of  fear.  Among  these  slept 
the  maiden  with  the  bloom  upon  her  cheek  and  life's  disci 
pline  all  untried,  and  the  sweet  infant  of  days,  and  the 
mother  parted  prematurely  from  the  children  of  her  love, 
and  the  man  just  risen  to  manhood. 

Year  after  year  the  frost  came  down  and  heaved  the 
ground — now  this  way,  now  that — till  the  mounds  settled 
down  to  the  level  around  them,  and  the  stones  sank  down 
into  the  mould,  or  leaned  in  indiscriminate  and  inharmoni 
ous  angles,  or  fell  prone  along  the  graves,  face  to  face  with 
the  skeletons  whose  name  they  bore.  It  was  a  rude  spot — 
sacred,  oh,  very  sacred — but  dressed  in  few  of  the  charms  that 
the  sensitive  Christian  mind  loves  to  gather  around  the 
place  where  its  silent  friends  lie,  and  where  it  expects  to  lay 
down  its  own  frail  tenement.  So,  in  the  later  times,  when 
the  steamboat  came  thundering  up  against  the  bank  where 
the  sleepers  reposed,  and  the  Bay  Path  had  been  mounted 
with  tracks  of  iron,  and  the  long  trains  flew  over  it,  another 
field  was  chosen — a  field  laid  out  by  God's  own  hand  as  a 
sleeping-place  for  his  children.  A  tinkling  brook  dragged 
its  silver  chain  over  the  pebbles  through  the  midst  of  it, 
and  old  gnarled  oaks  with  scanty  foliage  spread  their  arms 


416  THE     BAY     PATH. 

and  nodded  upon  its  hill-sides,  and  maples  rose  on  every 
hand,  so  darkly  and  freshly  green  in  summer,  and  so  richly 
draped  in  gold  and  purple  in  autumn,  that  they  betrayed  the 
crystal  springs  which  gushed  at  their  roots,  and  laughed 
and  played  like  children  among  the  alders. 

Into  this  new  field  came  a  swarm  of  living  forms,  and 
ratified  by  Christian  rites  Nature's  recognised  act  of  conse 
cration.  And  then  commenced  the  work  of  reformation 
and  culture.  The  brook  was  led  down  from  the  spring 
where  it  was  born,  like  a  pet  lamb,  with  a  bell  upon  its 
neck — made  to  leap  precipices  and  practise  dainty  antics  at 
their  feet,  to  steal  silently  along  under  the  grass  for  a  sopre 
of  rods,  and  then  dash  into  the  sunshine,  then  to  stumble 
down  graduated  steps,  to  find  its  feet  at  the  last,  and  bound 
merrily  away  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  From  the  foot  of 
the  oak  was  thrown  out  a  terrace,  and  on  the  terrace  rose 
a  shaft  of  marble.  And  the  springs  which  gushed  from 
among  the  roots  of  the  maples,  and  had  spent  their  lives 
playing  among  the  alder  bushes,  were  taught  a  new  path  to 
the  valley,  and  there  sprang  like  living  trees,  swaying  and 
dissolving,  sighing  and  whispering,  in  the  midst  of  their 
crystal  basins.  The  rough  face  of  the  earth  was  smoothed, 
picturesque  little  nooks  that  had  caught  the  leaves  for  cen 
turies  were  cleaned  out,  the  hills  were  rounded  oif,  and 
paths  were  made  to  wind  into  every  sinuosity  of  the  re 
newed  landscape. 

To  this  beautiful  spot  were  then  borne  the  dead.  On 
every  hill,  in  every  silent  nook,  on  every  jutting  promonto 
ry,  rose  the  sandstone  and  the  marble.  There  was  laid  the 
pastor,  among  the  fathers  and  mothers  and  lambs  of  his 
flock.  It  became  the  resting-place  of  the  people — so  beau 
tiful  that  the  living  never  tired  of  wandering  through  it 
and  lingering  in  it,  and  so  sweet  with  its  music  of  brooks 
and  trees  and  fountains,  and  the  sight  and  smell  of  flowers, 
that  death  became  more  amiable  in  the  association.  In  the 


THE     BAY     PATH.  417 

long  Sabbath  afternoons  of  summer,  many  a  lonely  wanderer 
sat  under  the  trees,  and  dreamed  away  the  peaceful  hours ; 
and  groups  with  chastened  hearts  and  springing  tears  as 
sembled  around  their  cherished  inclosures,  to  think  and  talk 
of  the  departed  ones  at  eventide. 

At  last,  there  arose  the  need  of  another  iron  path  to  the 
settlement.  Like  the  original  Bay  Path,  that  which  at  first 
connected  Agawam  with  the  Connecticut  settlements  was  a 
bridle  path.  Then,  as  on  the  Bay  Path,  descended  the  era 
of  enlargement  and  improvement.  The  baggage  wagon, 
the  stage  coach,  and  all  the  old  conveniences  for  travel 
and  transportation  came  in  their  time,  and,  by  their  side, 
the  sail  boat  and  the  steamer.  But  the  age  demanded 
something  more,  and  the  engineer,  as  he  adjusted  his  levels, 
struck  gravestones  in  his  glance,  and  the  surveyor's  chain 
was  dragged  across  the  old  inclosure  where  the  fathers 
were  sleeping,  and  where  they  had  lain  down  without  a 
dream  of  rising  until  the  resurrection.  The  decree  of  com 
merce  was  issued,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  accumu 
lated  dead  of  two  centuries  should  be  removed  to  the  new 
cemetery.  The  spade  was  dipped  deeply  down  through  the 
mould  and  sand  at  one  side  of  the  field,  and  every  pound 
of  earth,  spadeful  by  spadeful,  was  scrutinized  for  such 
frail  memorials  of  those  who  had  been  buried  there  as  re 
mained  undissolved.  Each  bit  of  plank,  each  ghastly  skull, 
each  remnant  of  a  bone  was  treasured  in  coffers  prepared 
for  it,  and  wherever  a  stone  marked  a  deposit,  both  were 
removed  together,  and  preserved  from  dissociation.  At 
last,  the  work  was  completed,  and  the  sacred  old  spot  sur 
rendered  to  the  engineer. 

There,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  overlooking  the  valley 
and  the  western  range  of  mountains,  rests  the  fallen  genera 
tion.  The  old  stones,  with  inscriptions  very  imperfectly 
traceable,  invite  the  attention  of  the  curious  passer-by,  and 
there  he  will  read,  if  he  can  make  out  the  half  obliterated 

18* 


418  THE     BAY     PATH. 

letters,  the  names  of  many  who  hare  become  familiar  to 
him  in  these  pages.  Among  the  old  stones,  he  will  find  one 
which  seems  to  have  bidden  defiance  to  time,  and  to  have 
escaped  the  mossy  and  crumbling  decadence  of  its  fellows. 
It  has  marked  a  precious  resting-place  for  nearly  two  hun 
dred  years,  and  these  are  the  words  which  it  bears,  as 
clearly  cut  and  as  fairly  engraven  as  if  they  were  traced  by 
the  chisel  within  a  twelvemonth. 

Here  lyeth  the  body  of  Man, 

the  wife  of  Elizur  Holyoke, 
Who  died  Oftober  26,  165.7. 

SHEE  YT  LYES  HERE  WAS  WHILE  SHE  STOODE 
A  VERY  GLORY  OF  WOMANHOODE  ; 
EVEN  HERE  WAS  SOWNE  MOST  PRETIOUS  DVST 
WHICH  SURELY  SHALL  RISE  WITH  THE  JVST. 


THE     END, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


ujg.     MAYisbff 
«M    61 


orm  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000023921    o 


